Children of a Common Mother
by Ankaris123
Summary: AU. Canada has literally disappeared off the face of the planet as a nation and as a landmass. You can't miss what you 'never had', right? Apparently that's not the case with America...
1. Chapter 1

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Disclaimer: APHetalia and its characters are property of Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Pre-Story Set-Up****: [IMPORTANT, please read]** Canada has literally disappeared off the face of the planet as a nation and as a landmass. Not even the nations of the world quite remember it (not that they did before). You can't miss what you 'never had', right? Apparently that's not the case with America…

_A/Ns_: I'm a terrible writer and I mean that by my non-existent deadlines and therefore no matter how tempted I am to turn this into a full-fledged fic, it'll remain a one-shot so as not to disappointment even more people. More on the birth of this one-shot at the end. I hope you enjoy.

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The golden July sun warmed the dashboard of his old pick-up truck as America cruised lackadaisically down the western coastline in Washington State. Tapping an ungloved hand against the steering wheel, he hummed along to the Kenny Chesney song warbling out of the car radio.

Across his country, his citizens were preparing for the Independence Day celebrations, putting together awe-inspiring floats, tailoring fantastic street costumes, arranging fabulous fireworks displays and the like. He enjoyed these preparation days almost as much as he enjoyed the actual festivities themselves. His boss always allowed him a couple weeks off this time of year to enjoy himself (and if not, it's not like they could really stop him) and despite all the other things he could spend his time on, America liked to personally visit each state and see how things were getting along.

As forests gave way to occasional stretches of parched lands and a cluster of shoreline homes even he himself wondered why he had come this far along the Interstate-5. Rolling down the dusty window (there was time after the trip to clean it up), the North American nation breathed in the fresh town air, feeling the locals stirring and going about their business and the jubilant children just beyond a line of trees on the elementary school grounds carving images with red, blue, and white chalk into the hot cement.

Just as the trees and town let up, the beautiful sparkling Pacific came into view; a police car far ahead of him flickered on its revolving lights for a moment. The uniformed man inside slipped out of the driver's seat as America pulled the vehicle to a gentle stop, flicking off the radio simultaneously.

"What's up, officer?" he greeted genially, leaning out the open window.

"You a tourist in these parts?" the moderately stout policeman asked, returning the lopsided grin and tucked his thumbs into his pockets.

"Sort of."

"Well, just giving you a heads-up. The highway ends a ways farther along, don't want nobody plunging into the salty depths there, see. We've had a couple folks from out of town a while back flying off the cliffs. Even the barriers don't seem to help," he said, then scratched his balding head. "Curious thing, y'know. The road just stops. Suddenly, you're on the road and then the next, nothing underneath you but water and lots of it."

"Really now?" America had heard about the astonishing number of casualties in Blaine in the past couple months. He had been meaning to check it out first hand.

"Yeah, don't know what the government was thinking when they built it. There might've been a roundabout at the end once upon a time, probably crumbled or something but that would've been before my time, I for one don't remember it for sure." Stretching, the man in uniform groaned as his aging joints creaked in protest. From the way the wrinkles around his eyes crinkled, he was probably stressed very often which was surprising given how out of the way this place was.

"Lots of trouble in these parts? You look overworked, if you don't mind me saying."

He chuckled.

"Not at all to tell the truth. If I had anything to say, I haven't been so _not_ stressed in years," he blinked, looking blankly at barren shore. "Strange really, I could've sworn this place used to be bustling with cars and whatnot, loads of traffic…why? I haven't got a clue."

America nodded empathetically. As of late, a vague nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind similar to what his aging citizen was experiencing. It was as though there was something missing yet nothing had really changed.

Pushing the feeling aside, he too cast his gaze westward where he could feel (the distance was too great for either of them to actually see) the isle of Point Roberts a couple leagues away. Somewhere, America could faintly feel Alaska all by its lonesome in the North.

"Well, there's no point in me keeping you here. Just mind where the road ends, alright? Not much to see over there anyways except for the Arch."

"The Arch?" There was that nagging feeling again.

"Yeah, the Peace Arch. Some historical monument erected after a war or something. I'm bit foggy on its origins myself but I suppose it's pretty for a lump of rock. If you're not interested, you can just u-turn here and head back, the municipality's still working on repaving part of this highway so folks don't have to drive over the grass. Beats me why it's taken so long to figure out."

"I think I'll check it out before I leave town," the blond man said, leaning back into the leather upholstery with what he hoped to be a faintly disinterested expression. The nagging feeling was joined by a strange writhing sensation in his abdomen, almost akin to anxiety.

The policeman nodded.

"It's a little early but Happy Fourth of July, have fun."

"Right back at you." With that last remark, he tensed his leg muscles, repressing the bizarre urge to floor the gas pedal, and rolled away at a leisurely pace, leaving the man to return to the police vehicle and some respite from the blazing afternoon sunlight.

In a matter of seconds, he pulled to a stop once more, taking care to park a decent distance from the reflective striped barrier with a painted STOP sign attached to its middle and the clear skies just beyond it.

Minutes passed as he sat there in the rumbling pick-up, blue eyes fixed on the white marble structure hidden modestly from view by the two trees flanking it from either side. His fingers were slightly sweaty (it was probably from the heat) as he turned the engine off and pocketed his keys.

The first step onto the flourishing green sent a jolt straight to his heart, a pang of indescribable heartache. It took him by surprise, adding to his confusion.

Why was he feeling this way?

Step by step, he strode towards the arch, his feet marching to his loud heartbeat. Perhaps this monument had a deep emotional significance to his country, something that, over time, had become forgotten, a mere relic of a bitter past. Like the Blaine local, he couldn't recall when and why it was made. It instilled a hint of nostalgia in him so he must've at least been here for the opening day.

Even with this reasoning, the nagging did not go away, like there was something more to the emptiness that sometimes kept him up at night, that surfaced amongst his thoughts when he dazed out during meetings, that pushed him to drive to the corner of this continent without reason.

Finally, he stood directly in front of the monument, taking in its majestic height at a glance. At the very top, his lucky stars and stripes waved in the coastal winds. The smooth frieze bared the inscription 'Children of a Common Mother' in black.

The words triggered a memory within him and a song of the same title flooded into his mind, sung by the dulcet tones of a woman's voice. It took hold of his voice and he found himself singing along quietly under his breath.

"_Standing tall. There for all."_

His eyes drew up to the flag once more.

"_A symbol of freedom, peace, and harmony." _

Wherever the sunlight touched, the white marble seemed to glow.

"_Our Fathers' eyes saw troubled times."_

Wherever the trees cast their shadows along its surface, the darkness seemed so much deeper.

"_So they built a reminder. For all the world to see."_

As abruptly as it started, it ended. The first verse faded away as the sounds of waves and the breeze returned.

Willing his limbs to move and his fixated eyes to avert its gaze, he circled the monument and approached the cliff.

Unlike the smooth, ocean-combed beaches along the west shoreline, here the land gave way to a sudden sheer drop and salt water as far as one could see. The sight was breathtaking in a good way and a bad way but right now all it did was making his knees weak. Even the Grand Canyon didn't have this effect on him and the distance to fall was far longer and definitely multiple times more perilous.

The Forty-Ninth Parallel was a geographical phenomenon that baffled many experts. It couldn't be readily explained and for reason unknown, no one had tried to explain it until recently. From the looks of it, it was like someone had taken a knife and chopped off everything that stuck out above that specific latitude. Of course, it was not perfect. There were irregularities, but from space it appeared as a straight border between the North American landmass and the expanse of the Arctic Ocean. Somehow, even the thought of it repelled him greatly and he avoided the cliffs whenever he could.

The knife analogy touched something inside, stirring the emptiness within him and probing his emotions for reactions. He tore his unfocussed gaze from the water and stared back at the Peace Arch again.

There was a strip of grass just behind the arch, wide enough to safely walk on without fear of falling over the edge. America walked uneasily towards it, then, checking that there was adequate space between him and cliff, he turned and tilted his head skywards.

It was identical from the seaward side, a perfect mirror as expected and well preserved like the whole monument itself. There were however subtle differences.

The pole at the top where the slanted roof met at a point had snapped in the middle, leaving it flagless. Facing away from the equator, this side of the structure was bathed in chilling shadows, giving it a sorrowful loneliness and squinting as his eyes adjusted, America could just make out the inscription: 'Brethren Dwelling Together In Unity'.

His breath hitched as a coldness gripped his heart in resonance with the words. The longer he stared the harder it became to breathe but he could not bring himself to look away.

Turning sharply on his heel, almost slipping on the damp grass, he scoured the view frantically. When he found nothing but the ocean, disappointment washed over him as though he expected something else to be there.

But it was just the ocean, the great blue wonder, glittering with sunshine but incredibly calm. Yet the near-perfect stillness, the docile way the waves pressed against the cliff terrified him. Short of hyperventilation, he retreated slowly and purposefully until he was underneath the arch before dropping to his knees.

Curling up against the white marble, he wrestled with his erratic breathing and racing heart, holding his sweating face in his equally clammy hands.

He didn't know how long he sat there, caressed by the breeze with the cool marble against his back leeching his body heat through his clothes. Despite the cold, the shady side of the Peace Arch was oddly comforting.

Gradually, America calmed down, pulling Texas off to rub his eyes and wiped the lenses clean on the hem of his t-shirt. Shoving it back on his face, he pulled his bomber jacket closed, grateful he had decided to wear it despite the heat.

The flourishing grass under his runners was green and full of life even though it lived mostly in the shade for much of the year. He ran the tips of his fingers through it, admiring the velvet tickle they induced. A tired smile crept onto his face as he closed his eyes and listened to the wind rustle the leaves of the surrounding foliage.

The pangs deadened to dull recurrent aches, manageable but still noticeable. He tried not to think of the inscription he had just read as licks of the chill returned with the slightest of recollection.

Opening his eyes again, he looked across to the opposite inner wall to see a black grill, part of a gate, and yet another inscription.

It read 'May These Gates Never Be Closed'.

Closed to what? he pondered briefly. The emptiness stirred again, restless but not insistent.

What is it trying to tell him?

He couldn't figure it out.

Leaning back and relaxing his shoulders, the chorus to the song came to mind. This time he allowed it to enter his thoughts, giving it room and free reign to voice its lyrics with his own vocal cords.

"_Children of a common mother._

_We are sisters, we are brothers._

_Children of a common mother._

_Sisters, brothers, it's all about you and me_."

Even as it faded away, he continued the song, swallowing hard and repeating the chorus in his thick, raspy voice.

He stumbled and choked at the word 'brothers'.

He was crying by 'you'.

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_A/Ns_: So after the devastating loss to the US in ice hockey (why were we playing so badly? Argh), I decided to nip around and heal my aching heart with a little friendly US-Canada relationship and immediately thought about the borders. Somehow it turned into this sap-fest which made me sad again but for another reason.

The Peace Arch is a monument at the US-Canada border between Surrey, British Columbia (part of Metro Vancouver) and Blaine, Washington at a very busy 24 hours borders crossing. The arch was erected as a joint project between the two countries to commemorate the end of the war of 1812 (more specifically, the signing of the Treaty of Ghent which ended the war).

The song 'Children of a Common Mother' is written and sung by Christina Alexander, a sample clip of the first verse and chorus are available on the Peace Arch website.

Having never been there nor ever driving down the Interstate-5, there may be inaccuracies in the descriptions (most of which were written with the help of Google maps and the street view function) so please excuse me if it happens and if you wish, please tell me what to fix. I've also got no clue about what happens on Independence Day except what wiki told me so there may be inaccuracies there too.

Geographical things are accurate (or are supposed to be) to the extent of all Canadian soil removed from Earth (therefore instead of the bay, the town borders the Pacific and the Arctic Ocean). There is no specific date on which this event happened. I also have no logic explanation for how a large landmass could disappear entirely but hey, this is fiction.

Hopefully, this fic was enjoyable.

**Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: America visits the Peace Arch in July. The inscriptions stirs up feelings for a brother who no longer (or rather, never) existed.

_A/Ns_: You reviewers are such mixed blessings. Made my brain stir up more plot for this one-shot. Now it'll never end. Are you happy now? (Sorry if Holland is...not Holland-like. First time I wrote him.)

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"I don't understand what you are trying to say, America. You sound flustered. Perhaps we should discuss this at the next world meeting?"

"_Look, Holland, it's simple! Forget about those examples and just listen. Are you listening?_" America's voice streamed through the receiver, tone touched with a hint of hysteria.

"I am listening," the European nation sighed sympathetically, kneading a growing headache out of his forehead. He didn't speak with the New World superpower often and especially not on private lines outside of professional congregations. He was glad he didn't as just this short telephone call was making it difficult not to revert to century-old tendencies and practices unacceptable in the Twenty-first century.

From the other end of the call were scratchy noises indicating something being rearranged. There was a deep, nerve-steadying breath before America spoke again.

"_Think back, recently have you felt...have you felt like something is...well, odd?_" Certainly, but doubt and unease were not uncommon to humans let alone personifications of nations.

"_Weren't there any instances where you've done something, remembered something and...and something doesn't really add up, like something is missing from the picture. I mean, it looks like everything is alright, history says it happened that way, everyone else says that's what happened, but...but it's like, it doesn't feel right to you. And what you feel doesn't make sense to the situation but would if there was maybe something else added back in_."

His hands had gone clammy as the North American babbled on in uncertain grasping words. As little sense as that made, it struck a chord inside him because he did feel this way. Holland swallowed thickly, unable to accept this.

"Why are you telling me this anyways?" It was difficult to say this as though in the back of his mind he already knew the reason and he only asked this question so that he might be proven wrong.

"_...I'm not so sure why myself_," came his reply, the sound was a little tinny from the reception. "_This is how I've felt lately and god knows why but..._"

"But?"

"_I had a feeling, no, I _knew_ that you would be feeling the same thing._"

The situation was getting too strange for the Dutch man's tastes; almost occult. Licking his chapped lips, he replied:

"America, I-"

"_Oh crap, sorry, I need to go. I'll call you back, okay? Bye!_" A click followed by the dial tone issued from the handset. Holland stared at it for a moment in disbelief before placing it gingerly back on its charging dock. Feeling unusually nerve-wrecked by the conversation, he strode over and steadied himself against the windowsill.

The gentle breeze of the Netherlands' cool summers wafted in through the open window, carrying the fragrance of seasonal flowers in full bloom from the lovingly tended garden. He closed his eyes, taking it all in and allowing himself to be bolstered by the mass merriment of his people brought on as a result of the vacation days. Once in a while, he'd feel a pinprick of tourists, foreigners treading his soil, and frowned a little as unease slipped back into the forefronts of his thoughts.

He tried not to let it get to him, but what America said spooked him beyond words. His green eyes swept over the rich lawn over the multitude of petals and their varying shades and colours.

Last autumn a corporate employee contacted him about a large batch of tulip bulbs set aside and asked for directions on where to send it. It was puzzling because no one seemed to know why they've been set aside in the first place. What was more puzzling, and in reflection rather disturbing, was that instead of giving the sensible response and having the shipment sent to one of the many auction houses, Holland had told them to withhold the batch until further notice.

For weeks, wooden crate upon crate of organic life waiting to be planted sat in the producer's freezers, taking up precious space. As the storage costs continued to add up, Holland fought with himself over what decision to make before, with a sharp twinge of regret, ordering for their sale in the auction before planting season was over. The only consolation, a meager compromise his common sense gave to his heart, was the single crate he withheld from the rest, which now sat in a specialized freezer in his cellar.

Tulips were curious flowers, requiring a period of cold weather before sprouting to bloom in the cool springs. In his mind's eye, he visualized a purple-tipped blossom peeking out of the melting snow, a sign of winter's end.

Still the only way to explain it was that somewhere within him, he knew that the bulbs were meant for someone but who that person was he had not a clue; just a vague feeling that lay out of his grasp.

Behind him, the door to the study swung open on well-oiled hinges.

"Are you finished with your call, broer?" Belgium asked softly, wiping her damp hands on the apron's worn linen. As she entered, she brought the familiar aroma of freshly-baked pastries in with her. When he didn't readily reply, she added concerned, "Is something the matter?"

"No."

A slender female hand rested on his broad shoulder, the warmth of sibling affection comforted him but did nothing to help him solve the mystery. For a while, they stood there, taking in the glorious view in a silence interrupted only by the sounds of nature.

"Are your dreams troubling you again?"

Dreams were not uncommon for the nations and the same could be said about nightmares. The trauma of wars, famines, natural disasters and many other factors all contributed to the contents of these night terrors which occasionally plagued them. Holland was no exception, yet even these dreams if they may be called such were a mystery of their own. His younger sister never asked him for the details respecting his privacy and he never felt inclined to confide in her. It seemed like a good time to start.

"When I dream of the terrible times," he began. "I dream of the World War, the second one. You remember, zus, what had happened. My people suffered greatly from the oppression and...and his occupation of my country. I had surrendered to protect my people yet..."

Belgium bowed her head, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. It was a difficult memory for her as well, for everyone involved. War was an unforgettable terror. She gripped his arm, assuring him that he could stop any time and that no one was forcing him to speak of this. He shook his head and, with a sharp inhale, continued.

"My people were so conflicted, torn apart on their path to survival, divided against each other. Then came Hongerwinter. It was...horrible, more than horrible, I have not the words to do it justice. Time did not pass for us anymore. Life became one endless excruciatingly drawn-out nightmare. Even when the war officially ended, we were not aware. We had lost hope for so long, fought against it for so long. It didn't seem possible.

"There was D-day just before. It rekindled the little hope within me and my people yet it was but a spark, a momentous flare which pushed back the darkness only for it to return to drown us deeper and darker than before. The soldiers deployed are not to blame, they could not push hard enough to break through. Despite their continuing efforts, we began to forget. Definite suffering close-by is stronger than the uncertainty of liberation in the distance. It was dark times indeed."

The thin translucent curtains billowed forth in a strong gust of wind, whipping around the two unmoving nations. They did not cry. They had shed all their tears back then, but it didn't make it any easier to remember.

"But...for reasons I cannot explain, through the pain of the dying, the starving, when these memories surface in my mind, I..." He broke off, hand shaking as he raised it, smoothing back his short hair.

"I felt happiness. And, I know, I really _believe_, that it was not a hallucination. That something did happen to make me feel so strongly in this way. But, I, I just...don't know why."

Placing a hand over his sister's, he gave her a weary smile, grateful for the understanding in the midst of the imminent confusion on her fair face.

"You must think me mad," he chuckled, tenderly embracing her. They were not always so close, sibling bickering was as natural to them as breathing however the intimacy of the moment would tolerate none of that.

"Just a little out of character," she replied playfully, reaching up to ruffle his hair. He scowled and swatted her hand away, provoking a giggle from his beloved sibling. With the mood lightened, they shared a brief smile though with dampened spirits. Somewhere in the house, a kettle screamed for their attention.

"Where are you going now?" said Belgium curiously as she headed for the kitchen. Her brother had shifted over to the coat rack, shuffling through an assortment of objects in a chest underneath noisily. After a lot of racket and some searching, he withdrew a worn but well cared-for trowel.

"I think I'll go plant those tulips."

"In the greenhouse?"

"No, the front yard." He grinned at his sister's apprehensive expression and looked out the window.

"It will be a short life, but I think they will bloom the most beautiful." 

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"America? Open the door this instant! I'll give you until the count of three, _one_-"

The personification of said country hung up abruptly and cursed at his misfortune. The persistent pounding on his door grew louder and louder by the second. And just as he was making progress with Netherlands too. He winced at the sound of Oxfords colliding with wood. Ignoring the madman trying to break down his door did not seem a feasible option.

Grumbling under his breath, he strode to the front door as quick as he could possibly manage and threw it open, jumping to avoid a well-placed kick. A red-faced England stared at him, out of breath and fists half-raised. He had been hollering at the top of his lungs for a good five minutes straight.

"It wasn't locked," America said matter-of-factly and turned the knob a few times for effect. He neglected to mention that it had been unlocked for the last week or so.

"How careless of you," England retorted, though noticeably embarrassed and decidedly bemused; he pushed his way inside just in case the door was slammed in his face and his humiliation was all for naught.

With the lights turned off and the curtains drawn over the windows, the suburban home had the appearance (and smell) of an animal's den although furnished with the latest in modern household technology. The matching couches and armchairs in the living room were pushed out of the way against the walls to give space to a teetering mound of paper—print-outs, old yellowing issues of the Times, unused and used napkins, blank printer paper, and the like—under which should be a sturdy coffee table that had not seen light in days. Pens, pencils, and markers were scattered everywhere. A desktop PC had been relocated next to a small square table which, instead of holding its usual vase and flowers, strained under the bulk of a heavy inkjet printer. Peering through the door to the kitchen adjacent, a small pile of dirty dishes could be seen growing hints of mold in the sink. Seeing it at all, in fact, was a feat itself through the overflow of empty take-out boxes and crumpled wrappers spilling over the counters.

America himself looked right at home (given that it was his home) with the general image presented by the house's interior. Overall, he appeared exceptionally rumpled, stale, and in a state of prolonged distress.

"Just what have you been up to? No one could get in contact with you for days and you didn't even let any of us know what's going on. Holing yourself up in your house is not the most exemplary example of a forefront nation. Even your boss couldn't get a hold of you," said England, gesticulating at the depreciated splendor of the dwelling. "Your explanation better be good. You've worried a lot of people!"

"Look, I didn't want to waste any time. I'm sorry, alright? If I forgot once, I could forget a second time, maybe even more permanently, so I had to come home and jolt down everything before, ...before it's not there anymore, okay?" He rubbed his arm nervously, grinding his teeth.

"You're blithering, America. And you're not making much sense either," said England, observing the superpower's bloodshot eyes uneasily. Something huge must have occurred to push such a strong-willed individual to the brink of insanity.

"You didn't believe me, no one did, so I decided to do all I could on my own," the American mumbled, scratching at the barest hint of a stubble. The tension in his shoulders dissipated to a certain extent. Wading through to the mountain of presumable information, America began to pick up stacks of hand-written notes and rifling through them for the desired pages.

"What are you talking about, America? And what is all this? What exactly are you writing down that you're afraid to forget?" England lingered at the edge of the mess, uncertain if he should venture into the room.

"I told you there used to be something, something in the Arctic Ocean. I don't know what it was, landmass is what I'm guessing, an...an island? I don't know, but there definitely was something there, something massive. I can feel it. So I've been compiling evidence to prove it," he said, pulling out several sheets and clipping them together. "As efficient as it is to use a computer, concrete stuff, stuff I can hold in my hands, felt more reliable at the time."

"Oh that," America had phoned him a few weeks ago, ranting about something or other and given that it was four in the morning, England smartly chose to hang up. "Listen here, America, you're obviously overworked. Or you're being too easily influenced by your Hollywood productions. That's probably the cause, isn't it? Those trashy excuses for works of fiction were even made in your very own country yet you're still susceptible enough to imagine up-"

"It's not that, okay? Stop trying to make it out like I'm crazy!" he snarled out of irritation and lack of sleep; the ferocity alarmed the British nation into stepping back into an empty water bottle. America frowned but scratched the back of his head apologetically, averting his tired gaze to a bit of wallpaper. "For a guy who thinks he can see fairies and use magic, you're one hell of a critic."

"I'm not even going to start on that one," England snapped, displeased by that remark but he held his temper. "Fine, I shall humour you. Give me evidence; prove to me that your imaginary island exists."

At that America thrust the thick wad of notes into England's hand and rummaged through the stack of newspapers, producing a fairly recent one. The front page showcased half an arch bridge under the title: _Work of Art or Waste of Resources?_

"Exhibit A, Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls, New York. You can't tell me that half a bridge jutting out towards nowhere is normal."

"That's just a public work of art, America. Everyone knows that and so should you of all people. The only strange bit about it is what it's supposed to symbolize though I suppose that isn't difficult to figure out." Gingerly, he leafed through the notes. Some of the pages were sticky, often the writing was smudged, scrawled completely intelligible, or resembled a streak of ink blots. Once in a while he caught a word or so: places, dates, odd looking diagrams. The sheer effort America seemed to have poured into this was overwhelming.

"But it's not strange that there are more than one of these? That all across the North-Eastern shore there are at least five or seven others just like it? Not strange that there are roads and highways that suddenly end going north? No one even knows who designed them! Tell me, England, that that's _not strange_. I dare you!"

The English man backed away from the raving lunatic but a raving lunatic with a point. It was indeed strange but everything could logically be explained in the end. It had to.

"There was probably some sort of land shift, part of the earth slid into the ocean, those things do happen-"

"But almost perfectly in a straight line? Across an entire continent? I find that difficult to swallow, England. Historians don't even have it documented anywhere." America was grinning, blue eyes glinting with triumph through the dim lighting. "You're running out of excuses. Admit it, I am right about this."

"Well, it's a darn sight easier to explain away part of a continent disappearing than an entire landmass! This nonsense stops here now. You look like you haven't slept in days! What's gone is gone, we can't do anything about it! It's just paranoia getting to you. Why do you care so much anyways?" As soon as those last words left his lips, England immediately regretted them. The man before him who he had seen smile, bloody smile, at the face of unadulterated danger looked so impossibly defeated. This wasn't America. It couldn't be.

"...n't know."

"What?"

America looked up, eyes blazing with contempt and anguish. He was almost certain he was going to be hit but stood shock-still and astonished when his former colony broke down in tears.

"I said, I don't know. I don't know why I care so much!" Wrenching Texas off, he rubbed his eyes furiously on his wrist, gasping a little to catch his breath. "And I don't want to stop caring even if it hurts this much!" 

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France turned his head towards the vast blue skies, leaning back against the side of the rental car.

When they landed at the private airport, he had insisted on taking the wheel, seriously doubting the Briton's control over his brewing temper on the road. The moment they pulled up outside the appropriate house, England leapt out of the vehicle and focused all his pent up energy on screaming and abusing the front door. France himself opted to wait a spell, finally relaxing against the velvet upholstery when he saw England disappear into the suburban home.

It was a quaint two-story house of decent size with a handsome paint job in blues, reds and whites. The American Craftsman-styled home was situated on the corner of the quiet residential block, shrouded by boughs of lush foliage. Shadows of rustling leaves fell upon the trimmed square lawn and the driveway. He found it peculiarly modest and muted for such a brash individual. He supposed that appearance (or character) did not mean everything.

Subconsciously, his vision drifted to a particular patch of sky that should not have looked any different than any other until he realized the direction in which he was facing. He very nearly blanched, entering the car again but this time into the passenger seat.

It was silly really that this should bother him so much. He had come in terms with his loss decades ago. Sitting inside with an idle mind, he fixed his gaze on a well-tended garden across the street, his thoughts beginning to wander.

It was a beautiful land; he remembered exactly the sight he beheld as he and the crew were swept onto the shores of the New World. He remembered roaming the lands and establishing New France, he remembered discovering the young America, he also remembered her.

Louisiana, she was. The only part of North America he was allowed to keep after England (no, back then he was simply Great Britain) was chosen over him and the war in Europe had ended. She was a small one but a bright little life. Perhaps it was the loss of so much land, forced to forfeit his claimed land and withdraw to the little settlement on the Southern coast that made him dote on her so. He poured so much time and love into raising her despite the troubles in the Old World and the dwindling colonies he had elsewhere. Always, England, always him, tearing him away from his children, his little siblings. But he too was an old nation and had suffered losses just the same so he did not blame the English man in the end. After all, they had to let them all go in the end.

Louisiana, sweet Louisiana. It had hurt him to give her away to Spain but he was a good man and watched over her kindly enough despite his perpetual occupation (although more accurately, infatuation) with South Italy. France was overjoyed when she was returned to him but it was a brief happiness.

It was troubled times during her return, even today he still couldn't believe he allowed Napoleon to persuade him to offer her up for sale to America. Yet he had agreed to it all the same, it was that day of parting that he felt what he still believed to be true sorrow. He couldn't forgive America for taking her even if she did belong with him and fitted in quite well. Perhaps it was too much to only concede his 'possessions' to those with whom he could sympathize. The United States was so green at the time, too young and optimistic to know how hard it had hit him.

Still, he had a nagging feeling that he shouldn't have had such a lingering attachment, that this feeling was slightly misplaced somehow...

Looking out southwards, France distantly wondered how she fared especially with the natural disasters that have struck in recent years, wishing her the best of luck should she need it.

Shaking his head at this unnecessary recollection, he busied himself by rummaging through the glove compartment, forgetting that it was a rental vehicle and thus would not hold anything of interest. There were only two things inside, a pack of cigarettes and a plain decorative lighter belonging to England. He had convinced him to place them inside, insisting that he would not inhale tar while he was driving and that with the way England's hand shook with rage, he'd more likely light his trousers on fire than the cigarette.

He pulled a stick out and held it with uncertainty. All (or most) nations had gone through a phase involving some sort of consumption of tobacco; he had quit it himself a long time ago. It was rugged, sure, and was a generally accepted (or rather, prevalent) practice in many bars he frequented but somewhere along the way, it lost its appeal. Only on occasion would he indulge in this old habit. Wine, however, that was a whole other story.

Flipping the lid open, he held the small flame to the end, lighting it and took a long drag. Slapping the lighter onto the dashboard, he coughed out the smoke; his eyes prickling with tears. Exiting the car once again, he took another drag before dropping it onto the pedestrian walk and grinding it under the heel of his leather shoe.

The smoke in his lungs seemed to wake him up. England had been gone for a while now, he supposed he might be needing some help.

Just a few feet away from the open door, he heard shouts issuing from inside and hastened his pace. Ducking inside, he saw England with his back turned to him and America crouching in a pile of paper.

Grief, that was one way to describe the prone figure on the living room floor, absolute despair came close. He was a complete wreck, dishevelled clothing, wild red-rimmed eyes. Sometimes he convulsed, with what it wasn't entirely clear. He was also crying.

"I-it's like a part of me got...got _cut_ out. The emptiness keeps gnawing away at me ever since I realized it was there. I don't understand it, I think...I think I will when I've figured out what's wrong with...with the world. I..." A fresh wave of tears spilled forth and he rubbed his eyes hard as if that was enough to stop it. "I-I just...have..."

Averting his eyes from the scene, France patiently led a stunned England by the elbow out of the house. This was all he could do for America from one who understood loss like he was going through right then. The Frenchman closed the door soundlessly and with care behind them. 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o 

It was some time later that America surfaced from his sorrows enough to drag himself up the stairs. Opening the closest door, he drifted in—a ghost—and dropped onto the bed. He slept.

When he woke up, it was already dark. Outside there were cars, family vehicles, returning from a summer's day of revelry. He laid there unmoving, listening to the sound of car doors sliding and slamming shut, to the bubbling laughter, to the shrieks of childish playfulness. He dimly wondered how long it was since he had slept in a bed and rolled over carefully, his body feeling as heavy as lead.

He wasn't in his own bedroom. The ceiling was all wrong. Another time this might have caused a panic attack but his mind, too dead to react, picked apart what he saw and came to the conclusion that he had wandered into the guest bedroom.

He rolled over again, burying his face into the cold pillow; the sheets icy cold against his bare arms. Somehow it was comforting, the mattress was well-used and broken in. The bedding smelled like fresh snow with a hint of something sweet.

As he laid there, his mind began to imagine, aided by his surroundings, that the rumpled comforter were arms trying to reassure him that he was doing the right thing; that the cold pillow he was cradling was a warm comforting body; and that the brush of the draft kicked up by the air-con was someone's sleeping breath on his cheek.

Another bout of shrieks from outside brought him out of his revelry. He sniffed, rubbing his face into the cotton.

In the past few days when he obsessively compiled evidence an indescribable energy surged through his body like adrenaline or a sugar rush. Every new piece he unearthed that corresponded with his hunch elated him, adding fuel to the blazing fire inside him. His claim was unmistakable, irrefutable, that was how he felt at the time.

Now he was not so sure.

England's arrival, he vaguely recalled France at the scene, had derailed him, injected doubt into his withdrawn confident mind.

But he was sure that there was once something up there and perhaps even a somebody. A ghost of a name fleeted around in the back in his mind, just out of touch. The tip-of-the-tongue sensation was killing him and there was nothing he could do about it. Yet even the frustration of not knowing was comforting, knowing that there was something to be frustrated about.

Give him a sign, something, somebody, tell him what he should do.

There was a thump.

It was a slight sound, it could have been his imagination, but it urged him to investigate.

Groaning, he pushed himself to sitting position, rubbing the dried tear tracks ineffectually and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Dragging his feet, he stumbled over to the built-in closet in the direction the sound came from and slid it open.

A cloud of dust escaped, he coughed and waited for it to subside.

It was empty, just two lone wooden coat hangers and a fuzzy gray bundle in the corner that might have once been a blanket.

Maybe he really was out of his mind, hearing things that weren't there. He made to close the closet door when he caught a minute movement out of the corner of his eyes.

It moved.

The blanket moved.

Lowering to a crouch, he reached out slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast whatever it was would evaporate into air. His fingertips brushed against the lump which twitched upon contact. Biting back a surprised yelp, he hesitantly placed the flat of his hand on it. It was warm.

The furry mound uncurled, shook its coat and sneezed. Its shiny black eyes blinked, well-rested and distinctly dazed.

"Who?"

America laughed.

He laughed and laughed until it hurt to breathe, until it hurt to move. His broad shoulders shook with unrestrained mirth as he pulled the confused polar bear into his lap, cleaning its fur with gentle pats. It sniffed a stain on his t-shirt and then looked at him.

"Who?" it repeated.

"Canada," he replied, thick with relief, burying his nose into the white fur. "He's Canada."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: And there you go. Now I just need to figure out how to end this. Anyways, brief notes on altered history (which might or might not make sense, since this is AU I suppose it doesn't really matter, eh?) the Juno Beach operation had a smaller force with the absence of the Canadian troops and were unable to liberate Southern Netherlands so they basically carried on until May 5 when the Germans demilitarized. France spent his time with Canada with Louisiana, doting on her until she was finally given away. Basically, whatever the heck is going on didn't change history to a major extent (because it would take too much effort, rewritten memories, etc.) but just switched a few things that could cover for the gaps. The only problem is that feelings remained mostly intact and of course, they made a mistake and left Kumajirou behind.

**Thanks for reading everyone! Reviews are appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: Holland confesses his odd memory of the Second World War to Belgium after a phone call. America is visited by England and France on his isolation problem. Hope returns upon the discovery of a certain polar bear.

_A/Ns_: Aaaah, listening to an AmeriCan fan soundtrack right now. It's so cute and sad…Writing Germany's part reminded me of the novel we read for English 12 called All Quiet on the Western Front. I do hope the not-really action sequence was okay. Also, is 'Good Night' in German, Gute Nacht or Guten Nacht? I'm getting mixed signals here. And a Schütze is a rifleman. Oh, and the song quoted is Lean on Me by Bill Withers.

Panda3035 – There will be a bit of First Nation stuff in a later chapter but not too much.

Anoni – There's an allusion to those battles in this chapter. It's not exactly specific to just one since I was going for a broadly scope so it could sort of cover both the wars. It might not actually be that broad...but, eh, I tried. Hope it's somewhat to your tastes.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"No...no, that won't do..."

A crumpled printout sailed across the room, bouncing off the humming refrigerator. Massaging his throbbing forehead with one hand, America pulled out a clean sheet of note paper from the stack with the other. He contemplated whether he should close the blinds or not as the sunlight heated his shoulder to uncomfortable temperatures.

With an exasperated sigh, he tried to bring his focus back to the problem at hand; pen poised over the blank white sheet. With his eyes closed in concentration, his hearing sharpened until he could perceive a faint scratching noise coming from the other room. Throwing down the ballpoint, the wooden chair scraped against the linoleum floor as he rose from his seat and hurried out of the kitchen.

"No, Kuma-, Kumatarou, -jirou, whatever! Bad!"

The white bear glanced over its furry shoulder and then returned to pawing at the front door; its sharp claws biting through the white paint finish. Stretching up onto its hind legs, it reached for the deadbolt.

"Hey! Listen to me!" America said, grabbing the arctic creature around the torso and dragging it away from the lock in a panic. Kumajirou strained against the tightening arms for freedom.

"Shh, shh," he cooed, trying to calm it down. His fingers trembled slightly as he ran them through the soft coat in what he hoped to be a soothing manner. "Come on, little guy. What's the matter with you? You know you can't go outside. If you go cantering around out there in this weather, you'll overheat. Besides, what will the neighbours think if they see you on the streets? They might call the pound or something. Not really sure if they would take polar bears though. I guess maybe animal control..."

He received an unimpressed look for his efforts.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it's taking so long to figure a way out to get your owner back, alright? I...I just don't know what to do. But we'll find the answer soon, right? Soon."

"No."

America blinked at the bear and then recalled that it had always known how to speak with the human tongue.

"No," it repeated vehemently, squirming a little for emphasis. "It's been long enough. I'm going."

"Where? You can't go anywhere! You're just a bear!" It couldn't leave. It can't. There was no way America was letting it go when it's his, or rather, _the _only connection, to his brother.

"It doesn't matter if I'm here or not. You're not going to find him if this is all you do. I _want_ to go outside."

America gave the bear a hard look, steady but afraid; afraid of forgetting everything again. Icy panic flooded his lungs at the prospect.

"No. I won't let you." He jerked his hand away with a yelp as jaws snapped at his wrist.

"I didn't ask for your permission," the voice was as cold as icebergs and just as perilous to confront head on. Protruding claws scraped against his clothes.

"Please, please, give me more time. Please..." He had been abandoned once; he couldn't stand it if it happened again. His hold loosened, but the bear did not break free. Instead, a paw pressed against the flat of his chest without hostility, prompting him to look up.

"He..., he is very lonely."

"What?" What was it talking about?

"Before he went away, he wondered if loneliness disappears when you go," said Kumajirou, his feral black gaze unwavering and intelligent. "So very lonely, even now. Did you think it was by your will that you are able to remember so clearly? That I was left behind, hidden and untouched in your house by coincidence? He made this happen, whether he knows it or not. He doubts that he will find solace in nothingness so he left a connection to him."

The bear averted its gaze, forlorn, but the large paws were ever present, using him as reluctant support.

"He is waiting, waiting for something to find him as he always has. This time that someone is you. Will you deny him this? Will you make him wait forever?" The voice was raspy now, unused to long durations of vocalization after his elongated hibernation. It looked at America imploringly desperate.

"But I don't have a clue as to what I should-, what I can do. What if there's nothing-"

He cut off, feeling the sharp tips of claws pressing against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"There has to be. He trusted you to be able to find him, that's why you remember, that's why I am here. Now it's your turn to trust him in giving you the tools to do so. Are you going to find what's-his-name or what?"

At a loss for words, America could only sit on the cold floor and run over what he could say and should say. Kumajirou's explanation rang true; this he instinctively knew. There was a connection, a weak, barely noticeable one, tying him to Canada. When his and the polar bear's gazes met, he saw frustration, anger, and most prominent of all, despair; despair in being useless to correct the circumstances. America understood that Kumajirou said all this not only for the benefit of the North American twins but also for itself; because it had no choice but to be dependent on the superpower to bring back its owner and friend.

"...right," he said at last, gathering the bear in his arms again, giving it a light squeeze. "You're right. Tell me, Kuma...Kumajirou. Do you know how Canada, um, went away?"

It was cocked its head to the side, thinking for a moment.

"They took him."

"They? Who're they? Tell me!"

"I don't know."

"I-, that's-, argh! Why haven't you told me this before?"

"You don't ask for help so I give none." The hand pulling at his hair in frustration lowered to his side with a sigh.

"...you silly bear," but he was smiling (just shy of a grimace) as he said this, ruffling the fur tenderly. At least now he had some sort of a lead. He jumped startled when the electric doorbell gave a hearty clang.

"Oh great..." he grumbled, scrambling to his feet. 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Germany stood back, waiting patiently for an answer on the front step although he restlessly checked the time on his expensive wrist watch every few seconds. There was a crash inside, followed by a sound similar to moving furniture, and then a human voice cursing colourfully. Eventually, the door swung open, revealing a rumpled America. The shoe cabinet to the side was just noticeably out of alignment.

"What," the North American nation said bluntly, pulling out the hem of his t-shirt where it was half-tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His figure was noticeably thinner yet his blue eyes were full of restive energy.

"Good afternoon to you as well, America. I hope you have a decent explanation as to your skipping of yet another World Meeting. It seems despite England and France's efforts to pry you from your home, you are as obstinate as ever," he chided with an even temper, tapping his leather shoe against the concrete to somewhat disperse his irritation. "Please think clearly for once and remember your duties. It is unseemly to seclude yourself like this. I understand that you have been continually refusing contact through every medium of communication at our disposal apart from direct face-to-face contact and I must admit I am not impressed. Whatever are you doing that is so important, America?"

Scratching his head, America glanced to the side, thinking quickly.

"Uh, I was cleaning...my storage room."

"And that warrants total segregation? I think not." He crossed his arms, causing the well-pressed sleeves of his suit jacket to wrinkle, waiting for an adequate response. America merely frowned, shuffling to the side to withdraw a neglected dustpan from behind the cabinet.

"I just need some time on my own, okay? So off with you, that storage room isn't going to clean itself, you know. Come on, little guy." A white polar bear—its appearance though out of place in the suburban house was reminiscent of Knut back home—toddled after him, faintly lethargic.

"May I remind you that a UN general assembly is scheduled in a matter of days? Surely you will not skip such an important event when its designated location is in your very own country?" he called after him. Much to his chagrin, America carried on, turning around the corner at the end of the hall. Thin-lipped and bemused, the German followed, determined to knock some sense into the superpower.

Rounding the corner, the storage room door stood ajar; a set of unpolished wooden stairs lay beyond it, leading into a dim cluttered area. Wrinkling his nose against the dust, he descended into the half-cellar and nearly trod on the bear.

"Excuse me," he muttered, looking around for a light switch and finally settling for groping his way through the shoddily constructed path towards the very back. America came into view, standing in front of an old dish cabinet; one of its doors was missing a panel of glass. Raising an arm to his nose, Germany suppressed a sneeze as America gave the open middle shelf a perfunctory dusting.

"America." He was ignored for pensive rearrangement of a set of handcrafted toy soldiers that had fallen over. "If you won't reply, I'll just say what I came to tell you."

Careful fingers skirted across a folded uniform sitting on the very same shelf, dust accumulating in mounds as he moved his pale appendages along.

"As nations we cannot indulge in self-oriented goals. Our work is for the better of our countries and for the world. Unless what troubles you pertains to the rest of us, I suggest you set it aside for another time," he moved aside as the polar bear squeezed between his legs and a stack of boxes into the tiny clearing, "I understand it is a lot to ask sometimes, but we are obligated to put the whole before the individual. And...and if it's something I can help with, that any of us can help with, don't hesitate to ask."

For some reason, his words caused a slight reaction in America, who paused in mid swipe; the frayed cloth dangling idly for a moment. Germany decided to push this point despite his discomfort with emotional openness, hoping for a breakthrough of some sort.

"I remember a song; I believe one of your people sang it. I recall you quoting it once during a meeting and its message remained with me all this time. I think you should take the advice it gives that 'no one can fill those of your needs, that you don't let show'," he said softly, watching for the American's reaction. "You, ...you are not alone, America. This is the age of globalization. We are all connected and all friends here. And friends are pillars of support, but only if you let us. We worry about you and want to help. So let us."

America did not raise his head but his hand gripped the washing cloth until the knuckles whitened, bloodless. There was a brief pregnant silence before the cloth swept across the wood again in jerky motions.

"...'m sorry."

"Pardon?"

"I'm sorry. I thank you. For the consideration, but I don't think you or any of the others can help me. Nothing short of the supernatural will, at any rate," he said choppily, pulling a dust-crusted object from the shelf, dragging the dust cloth over its length.

The uncharacteristic hesitation and rigid actions were getting on the German's nerves. Now he knew what England and France had talked about. He opened his mouth to object to the defeated nation's proposition when his breath caught in his throat, leaving him gasping without noise. A chill blossomed in his chest like a bullet through the heart.

"Are you okay, Germany?" the blond man asked, cradling the historical weaponry in his arms. The bayonet blade gleamed underneath the heavy layer of rust. The white bear peered back at the stunned German, sitting docile by the cabinet.

It could only be described as déjà vu. An impossibly familiar sense of fear gripped him.

He blinked.

—_Through the jagged earth that rose above him on both sides was the blue sky, greying with the smog of machinery and death. The dirt wall he laid against crumbled under his calloused hand. He couldn't tell if it was his heart pounding in his ears or boots against the hardened battlefield._

A strangled shout pierced the late afternoon air further down the line, a desperate final warning.

Trench Raid.

Before Germany could even scramble for purchase on his loosely held rifle, the wave of intruders hit the trench line in large numbers. A fellow Schütze, wide-eyed with youthful terror, splashed through the oozing mud towards him.

Small, mud-splattered, the white creature leapt in from above, slamming into the thin, frightened figure; jaws aimed with precision at the soft delicate flesh of the throat. Its snout came away, dripping crimson. He raised his rifle against it, reaching for the trigger.

His vision exploded with stars and black spots. Falling forward into the viscous muck and clutching his head where it was struck by the butt of an enemy rifle, he cringed in pain to turn, firing a blind shot at his assailant. The wounded soldier staggered, pressed a filthy hand against his bleeding torso in confusion, and then sank to his knees, where he remained as if praying for salvation, finally keeling over sprawled on the trench floor, dead.

Behind him, the last breath of his young comrade was ripped from his throat. Blood, pungent and abundant, spread its scent like a heavy fog around him. He fought the reflex to throw up whatever was left in his empty stomach, rising unsteadily to his feet, as his ears picked up the gunshots around him, the prickle of death and injury grasping at his heart.

There was barely enough time to think of confronting the unknown beast behind him. Vaulting down from above came yet another raider who, sighting him on his descent, knocked him off balance with clumsy jab of his gun. It hit Germany square on the forehead; a bout of dizziness washed over him as he fell back onto his elbows.

A youth stood before him, breathing harshly, chest heaving. His soiled blond hair glowed in the dying sunset, sticking to a sweaty slender face. The uniform he wore was ill-fitting, obviously made for a larger man, torn from use and the clinging grasp of barb wire. Under the boy's feet was the deceased man's corpse, aiding his compatriot one last time as a soft landing after a three metre drop.

The muzzle of the rifle dug into his own heaving chest. He raised his eyes to look into his executioner's face; violet eyes hardened by the war and sorrowfully empty. They pierced him accusingly, but also emanating a sympathetic message that crossed the limiting boundaries of language; it was one most soldiers came to know on the battlefield, that even enemies were just fighting to live for another day, and in different time and place they might have be brothers and friends.

I'm sorry.

The shot rang out in the trench, just one of many. As his breath grew shallower, Germany laid back in the diseased muck, waiting for the darkness that was not at all foreign for he had been killed in action on numerous other occasions. It did not make it any less painful although he was not as afraid as he was the first time it had happened. He laid there, wondering what had gone wrong that boys barely out of their childhood now stalked around on war-ravaged lands holding themselves like old men who've seen too much about the cruelty of man, and then he remembered. On the battlefield, no, even in peace times, age, size, gender, none of those mattered. Death did not discriminate, but in war, it was in its element, a one-man army without adversary. Even at home where it should be the safest, normal life was under siege. What had gone wrong? How had it come to this?

The blond hair and purple eyes and a white furry blob swam into view, briefly before the end. A soft whisper made its way to his ears, tinny and distant.

Gute Nacht—

He gasped surfacing from the vivid recollection, steadying himself on a dusty stack of boxes marked 'stuff'. Cold sweat made his skin uncomfortably damp and caused his clothes to adhere itself to his shivering frame.

What was that?

Flinching, he almost struck out when he felt something brush against his elbow, only stopped by his lack of energy.

America frowned, eyebrows furled and perplexed by his strange actions. The rifle had been replaced on the shelf, polished clean of grime and although the North American's face, which contained an uncanny likeliness to the youth, provoked slight relapses of that very same bone-chilling terror, the effect ebbed away, eventually neutralized.

"You alright?"

"Ja-, Yes. I am fine." He pushed himself back on his feet, rearranging his sleeves and cuff links in the need of a distraction. Clearing his throat uneasily once, he decided to change the subject. "You're..., you're rather fortunate, you know, America? Russia was initially assigned to this house call. However, recent events have called him home-"

"That's it!" the superpower cried, grasping him firmly by the shoulders. A look of inspiration washed over his previously passive expression, lighting a spark of uncontainable zeal that was the trademark of the American. He was so shocked at this complete reversal that his hand closed around the broom handle shoved onto him automatically as America tore from the dingy room.

Unsettled by how the polar bear was staring at him, he placed the cleaning tool against the boxes and followed after the other nation, guided by the light from the doorway.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

America was only dimly aware of people, common citizens, trying to stop him as he stormed through the building, bulldozing his way through the obstacles like a human tank.

After ushering Germany out of his house to much protest and confusion, he cleaned himself up and put on a casual suit (and, of course, his bomber jacket which he didn't realize how dearly he missed it until he put it on again). Grabbing a light snack for him and Kumajirou—three cheeseburgers and a slab of Sockeye from the fridge—they stood in the driveway as the taxi pulled up. A few well-placed calls and the next moment they were on a plane over the sparkling Atlantic.

Kicking the next door open, he pushed away an attendant behind it, questioning him in his foreign tongue. He had no time for this. Kumajirou was getting restless in his arms.

Through yet another door, the tall, severe-faced secretary inside rose from her swivel chair, and having been informed over the telecom, was unsurprised by his sudden appearance. Unlike those before her, she had the posture of rigid authority and a no-nonsense aura.

"What you want?" she asked in thick broken English, manicured fingers skirting across the underside of the work desk for the emergency button. Before America could reply, the office door behind her flew open, slamming into the wall with a resounding crash. A large figure entered the room, exuding displeasure in waves. Cold lilac eyes narrowed as they fell upon the unwelcome visitor.

"America, what brings you here unannounced?" Russia said, his smile frosty and humourless. He was obviously in the middle of a meeting with his boss.

For once the North American nation swallowed his pride, hugging the bear close for strength and support and said,

"I need your help."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o 

"So you are wanting my help, dah?"

"Yes. I've explained this a dozen times. Can you help me or can't you?"

Russia raised both eyebrows, taking a deep swig from his vodka bottle and settling more comfortably into his armchair. America knew he was doing it to infuriate him and settled for clenching and unclenching his fists.

"You are the one asking for favours, America. It is in your best interest that you keep me in a good mood, dah? Why are you so eager to seek certain death, America? I am curious."

America could practically feel precious time ticking away.

"Fine. Here," he reached down and picked up Kumajirou who thrashed around in protest having been immersed in his lunch. "Does this guy remind you of anything? _Anyone_?"

Russia observed the creature for a moment, tapping his chin with a gloved hand in thought.

"Somewhat. He belongs to...a little man, very much like you, but smaller in spirit, dah? Name is something like...Can...Kah..."

"Canada," he offered, a tad irritated at being called small. The blond nation leaned over and plucked a half-eaten sardine from the tarnished metal plate, feeding it to the hungry polar bear.

"Dah, that is the one. Very strange,' the large Russian paused here, watching as the bear's jagged teeth tear through the fish's flesh and bones, 'that you would care so much for a common stranger."

"He's my brother."

"Brother? I did not know you had any apart from Great Britain."

"Not many people do these days," It was getting difficult to hold back the biting sarcasm. "But I'm going to make it right again. People will remember. They will remember him if I have anything to say about it."

"Remember whom?"

"Canada!"

"Oh, right," he smiled in false amity, fingers dancing along the long glass neck of the vodka bottle. "What was it you want from me again?"

"Will you-_argh_, you know what? This is pointless. Every time I explain it to you, you forget the moment after. Why do I bother?"

"Explain what, America?"

"Canada!"

"Who?" A second softer voice echoed this sentiment.

"Canada! He's Canada! Why can't you remember that? He's my brother. He's one of us, a nation! His human name is Matthew Williams. He's one of your biggest ice hockey rivals. If you head North long enough, you'd run smack into him!"

Russia blinked, unmoved by America's fevered rant and remained calmly seated in his chair as the North American superpower paced around the coffee table, gesturing furiously with his arms.

"I am thinking that you need rest. I have been informed by the others of your...unusual behaviour. There is nothing to run into except for you and Greenland, dah? Only kilometres and kilometres of ocean, dah?"

America did a commendable job of holding in an outcry of frustration. Obviously there was some otherworldly force at work, preventing the former Soviet Union from retaining information about his lost brethren. Even the presence of Kumajirou was not enough to unravel the overwritten memories.

Except for himself, of course, America duly noted.

"Okay, putting that all aside, I just want you to do that one thing for me."

"And that is?"

"Take me to General Winter."

There was a stiff silence which had punctuated the conversation several times before when America had made the proposition only for it to be forgotten again and thus repeated. The vodka sloshed in its bottle half-empty as it was lifted to thin lips.

"You _are_ mad. Are you sure you won't prefer to rest? I do think you need it."

"Since when have you cared for my well-being?"

Russia took a second swig of the alcohol, the liquid searing his throat with familiarity.

"I don't."

Muttering darkly, America crouched to gather a satiated Kumajirou off the carpet. This was a complete waste of time.

"It's clear that you aren't going to help me so I will leave now," he said stiffly, striding quickly for the door. In his mind, thoughts stirred and collided now that his main objective had failed. He would move to Plan B which was to brave the climate and topography of Northern Russia alone. It was extremely risky, he knew, but at the very least, he wouldn't die and it was still late summer so he may be lucky. At the most, he'd be forgotten, a frozen figure in the unforgiving wilderness. Gripping the doorknob tightly, his resolution was firm. He was willing to take this risk.

"Ah, America," Russia called out from behind him. He jerked his head around, giving him an aggravated expression. The large nation smiled with a touch of mischief and said,

"I did not say I won't, dah?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: General Winter time! I wonder how long this will get...it might end in two more chapters (of similar length) but I don't know. Still need to work out how to end this properly. There might be a slight confusion to what America meant by 'run North', it means that if you go North, eventually you hit the North pole, and going beyond it, you end up going South so eventually he'd hit the North American continent.

**Thank you for the reviews, they do my heart good. I really enjoy reading them. Thank you for reading! Until next time.**


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: Kumajirou divulges some interesting information. Germany offers an unexpected stroke of inspiration. Russia complies.

_A/Ns_: I swear that every time I leave this fic to sit, it gets longer and longer. All the same, it's been a while but I hope this chapter is enjoyable. Uh, the words/synonyms for snowstorm gets a bit repetitive in this chapter, sorry. Anyhow, read on!

Panda3035: Aye, yes. And here he comes!

tidus2529, Sandy Eggo, and Rae: Thank you for your reviews!

And as well, thank you once again to everyone who took the time to review.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Powdered snow raised in a miniature flurry around them as the sleek helicopter rose vertically into the afternoon sky. Waving farewell to the saluting pilot, America turned on the spot and made sure the polar bear was still with them before giving his surroundings a better assessment.

It was pure wilderness all around, not a sign of inhabitants in sight and the beginnings of an early winter wonderland evident on the lonely terrain as August came to an end. Coniferous trees dotted the unblemished white plane, gradually making way for empty plains on one side and stunted shrubbery. Beyond these repressed organic life forms, thicker woodlands broke the horizon. Already everything in the vicinity was blanketed with a layer of fresh snow.

Shivering, America tugged up on his zipper to make sure his bomber jacket was sealed up properly against the cold. The chilling air was sharp and just below freezing temperature. Rubbing his arms through the wool-lined sleeves, he was grateful that it was decent protection against the weather but regretted choosing to wear dress pants.

Over by a small but sturdy Black Spruce, bent at a tilt from years of relentless winds, Russia opened his eyes and reached for his ever present bottle of liquor. After a long hearty swig, he started off towards the distant boreal forests.

America followed, cursing whenever the sole of his boot came down on an irregular shape under the snow and caused him to stumble. After a few minutes, he caught up, his pace matching that of the Russian. Kumajirou meandered slowly behind them untroubled and sometimes veered off course to inspect the flora which was increasing in population the farther they walked.

"So where is the guy anyways? Are you sure he's here? Wherever this is?"

Russia glanced down at him sideways, his pernicious smile aided in heightening the penetrating chill America suffered in this climate.

"I see you are not taken to the Russian Taiga, comrade. I am surprised since Аляска shares a similar climate."

"I was never really crazy about the cold, just so you know," he grumbled in response, recognizing Alaska's name in the foreign tongue. "Besides, it's not like I'm properly dressed for the weather."

"Dah, but you are pursuing General Winter and just that is enough to know better than to show up under-dressed. Nature is never to be underestimated, comrade."

"How much farther are we going?" The temperature was still bearable but the North American nation could feel his toes begin to tingle. He flexed his gloved hands to generate warmth and stimulate his blood circulation.

"It will depend. The weather forecast placed the ground blizzard some hundred metres from the drop off point. It may have moved on during the ride over; it may very well be moving right now. Certainly it would be lucky if we reach it before it disappears."

"So this could all be for nothing? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Normally, America, people do not chase after snow storms. And-" he paused both in speech and in movement. Closing his eyes as he did before, the Russian appeared to be appraising the atmosphere around him. If America held still enough, he could feel a minute breeze kicking up.

"It seems we are in luck. We shall stop here." His tone expressed rather explicitly that this was not up for discussion. Pulling out his bottle, Russia sat down on a shallow tree root, leaning back against the freezing trunk unconcernedly.

"Why stop here? If we're getting close, shouldn't we go to him? Call him out or something?"

The cork stopper made a pleasant pop as it was yanked out the bottle's neck.

"One does not call out General Winter. He comes to you, that is, if he wants to. He answers to no one but himself."

Disgruntled but obliging, America plopped himself down on a tree root opposite. He passed the time by watching Kumajirou sniff through the foliage in the distance. Gradually, the slight breeze strengthened until it was whistling through the low density forest; the powdered snow was blown into the air as it wound paths of wind over the freezing ground.

Shortly the entire area was barraged by the beginnings of a flurry. Visibility lowered considerably as time passed, growing increasingly powdery white. Jamming his gloved hands into the lined pockets of his bomber jacket, America's scowl was unseen by the large Russian man who, to his chagrin, reacted not at all to the change in the atmosphere. Instead, he seemed to be downing the alcohol with redoubled fervour.

Before the blond man could open his mouth and make a snappy remark, the subject of his verbal inquisition appeared out of the woods.

A towering figure emerged from the raging blizzard, carrying the storm with him as he approached. Torn and tattered, the force of nature swept close in the guise of a long-forgotten war veteran searching for its next battlefield. No matter how hard one focused, his face, aged and of a ghostly pallor, could not be made out apart from the vague outlines of rugged facial hair and colourless eyes that hurt to even glance at. He was all whites and grays, one with the storm. No, he _was_ the storm.

General Winter had arrived.

Swallowing dryly, America rose to his feet, wiping his glasses free of snowflakes. His limbs ached from the chill and the exposed skin of his face reddened as the snowstorm whipped around him in biting lashes of ice. Squinting, he tried his best to keep the supernatural being in sight through the blinding white.

"General Winter!" he called out to attract his attention. Perhaps the winds had stolen his words before they reached their destination as General Winter showed no indication he had heard him and ploughed on forwards without missing a beat.

In a matter of seconds they were barely three paces apart, winter's personification finally gave acknowledgement to their presence, turning his head sharply to stare at the Russian who raised his vodka bottle in greeting still perched on the tree root. Despite the informality of his gesture, America could see the strain in Russia's expression to keep from betraying his fear to his greatest enemy and ally.

"General Winter!" he called out once more, cupping his hand to direct the sound. This time there was a response. America's lungs filled with ice as the figure shifted his attention to the North American nation, freezing him in place. He grew dizzy with the urgent messages of retreat his nerves were continually and rapidly sending to his brain in instinctive self-preservation. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he struggled to bring his voice back into control and carefully avoided staring directly at him.

"Where is Canada?"

General Winter came to an abrupt halt in the eye of the storm, untouched except by a few waylaid currents of circulating air. America flinched, ready to defend himself, as a gloved hand raised slowly only to rest on the scarred helmet, adjusting it minutely. With that he continued onward without once looking back or speaking a word, taking the flurry with him.

"Wait!" The personification of the United States stepped forward, catching his foot on a buried obstruction and fell face first into the knee-deep snow drift. Almost at once, he was seized by the collar of his jacket and hoisted back to his feet by a grim and pale faced Russia. Muttering a disgruntled thank you, America made to chase after the supernatural being only to find that he was being held back by the same hand that helped him up.

"What are you doing? Let me go! I have to follow him!"

Attempts to free himself from the tight grip were fruitless. He settled for glowering furiously up at the Russian who merely—as well as infuriatingly—stared back unperturbed.

"That would not be wise. If he did not say anything to you now, why would he say anything later? He has nothing to say to you and that's all there is to it. It is best not to test General Winter's temper, America. Take it from one who knows." A curious expression crossed his broad face; one haunted and crippled by a distant memory. He relaxed his grip marginally, giving the American his chance to escape.

Eager to put some distance between the two of them, America stumbled four steps through the thick snow, steadying himself with a nearby Spruce. Glancing back, he saw that Russia had not come after him nor appeared to feel inclined to stop him. He simply stood there until finally he turned away.

"As I have said, people normally do not chase after snowstorms. Even I admit that you are not as stupid as you appear especially in the face of danger. If you will not heed my warnings, then,' he paused here as he fumbled for the spare bottle of vodka he carried with him having polished off the first one ages ago, 'I hope whatever motivated you to ignore them is well worth the risk."

America watched unmoving as Russia trudged away, leaving a trail of deep set boot prints in his wake. Before he completely disappeared from view, the blond replied.

"You should come over some time. We'll go storm chasing in the Great Plains."

Although he couldn't see it as he was facing away, he knew Russia was smirking if not grinning at his last remark. His broad retreating back seemed slightly less sullen.

Noticing how quickly the storm conditions were dwindling, the superpower brushed the snow off his jacket and began to trail General Winter as fast as he dared.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The call was cut off with a vicious click and a shrill beep as England gave the mobile phone a displeased glare as if the machine had done him wrong. As per request, Germany had called some time after his visit to America's home with a status report detailing that the superpower was now as good as missing. Honestly, can't anybody get anything done right?

Taking a few deep breaths to quell his accumulating irritation, the Brit tried to make himself comfortable on the faux-leather two-seater. The tinkle of porcelain announced the arrival of his host.

Hong Kong swept into the small domestic living room without a word, setting the tarnished silver tea tray down on a side table after nudging the lamp over to make space. Neither of the two exchanged words as the hot beverage was prepared. Agitated voices rose in volume from down in the streets, wafting in through the open window.

"Do you mind if I closed the window, Hong Kong?" A slight nod and England rose from his seat and shuffled across the short distance to the window, pulling it shut after peering disinterested down at the crowd below. After latching it, he returned to the couch and idly admired his former colony's home.

It was oddly fitting, the cluttered but clean enclosure. The humble abode was nothing more than a one-bedroom flat with adjoined kitchen and bathroom of almost excruciatingly confined proportions. It was decorated liberally in a mixture of modern Western and traditional Chinese touches, a flat screen television fitted on a wall over here, a little shrine of a folk religion deity over there. Homey but cramped.

"Having a little trouble with the citizens, my boy?" England commented after accepting the teacup and giving him a thank you. He smiled approvingly at the use of the good tea set and inhaled the sweet aroma of freshly brewed Darjeeling. Hong Kong nodded again, making a cup for himself.

"You should speak up more, lad. You're awfully quiet, almost oppressed. That isn't the case, is it?" his thick eyebrows furled in concern. "Is China being harsh on you? I'll speak with him if you wish."

The taciturn nation shook his head in negative, sitting down on a fold-out chair adjacent that he brought out whenever he had company.

Oppression, a curious topic for England to bring up. Hong Kong was no stranger to oppression, after all he was not a country, a special administration region, sure, but it was little better than a title at times.

He could not remember whether he was as closed-mouth back when he was an insignificant harbour town as he was presently. All he knew was that under England's reign and even now, he had quite often lost voice in his parliament and that the smart move was to comply when required and to leave the complaining to his people. Give them what they want and they might not treat you so bad or even reasonably well. Speaking back at the teacher might be a commendable feat of solidarity but at the end of the day, it was still cheek to the authorities and a lonely hour of detention.

Although he'd stuck to this code often (not that he had much say seeing as he was a colony at the time), Hong Kong was by no means an obedient follower; his occasional fits of rebellion—as England so eloquently put it—attested to that. The slightest of smiles touched the corners of his lips as he recalled a certain memory involving a large amount of leftover firecrackers. There was a saying after all: Actions spoke louder than words.

Absentmindedly, he pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the growing headache. The sounds may have been blocked out in reality but as his people's representative he easily felt their irritation as they paraded the streets. He was well aware that he looked distinctly sleep deprived these days and the almost daily protests were no help.

"I just don't understand him," England blurted out suddenly, bringing him out of his thoughts. "I've seen nations looking overworked but this is something way beyond that, I'm sure. Lad's gone barmy, if I had anything to say about it."

Hong Kong inclined his head politely to indicate that he was listening even if he didn't understand what he meant.

"America hasn't sent you this, has he? I think he's sent it to everyone."

The Brit held up his mobile so Hong Kong could see; the bright screen displayed a text message containing a single word.

_Canada_.

The Asian nation closed his eyes as imagery flooded into his mind; the same had happened the first time he laid his eyes on the message several hours ago on his own cell phone.

Like a film on fast-forward, a vast, distantly familiar land spread out beneath him hundreds of metres below. He watched as a steel ribbon cut through the wild green landscape, curving through varying terrain flat or otherwise, crossing stretches of fresh water rivers, hugging the banks of bountiful lakes, even striking through mountains. His hands twitched as if it recalled the sensation of laying down each individual piece of the structure and fixing it place, building the railroad bit by bit.

And then it was over, almost the instant it started. It was as though he had only blinked, still observed expectantly by England.

"Yes, he has," Hong Kong breathed, rubbing his thumb over the delicate handle of his untouched tea.

"It doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"

Placid chestnut brown met inquisitive green.

A whole new memory rose from the depths of his mind where he shoved the most unpleasant thoughts.

Surrounded, so alone, so afraid as the Japanese soldiers marched onwards closer to his home. He remembered sitting up by the telephone late into the early hours of dark winter mornings, waiting for his British caretaker to call and send help. He remembered his anger and fear when it seemed like he was abandoned in his worst nightmare waiting to happen.

He remembered the Allied soldiers arriving by ship, some from his commonwealth siblings. He distinctly recalled the regiments sent by sister India who could not show up in person but sent her well-wishes all the same. He remembered regiments from another but could not for the life of him recall his name nor face even though Hong Kong had been there to greet him at the port as the foreign nation set foot on his soil.

It was a battle doomed to failure. Everyone knew so from the start but they kept on going in hopes of deterring the opposing forces for a little longer. He remembered each and every sacrifice on the front lines as he felt his territory became encroached upon and seized from him until surrender was the only option.

He had wanted to go with his soldiers to the prisoner camps, to try and ease their suffering whenever he could, but he had to stay with his citizens as an occupied nation. He recalled the hardness of the cement floor as he was chucked haphazardly into a pitch-black basement, hogtied with his hands bound behind his back.

The next part caused his breath to hitch; it hadn't been part of the memory before...

There was someone else in the room with him. There was not enough light to see but a warm back was pressed against his own as he sat in the darkness, his people subdued by the enemy or rebelling in secret outside. It was another nation, he knew it; it only made sense as he was separated from normal people because of what he was. Whoever it was sat up with him, the other nation was also restrained in a similar fashion with thick rough cords, back-to-back. No words were exchanged or if there were, Hong Kong could not remember them.

He remembered the gloved hands clutching his own trembling scarred ones awkwardly from their position, an infinitesimal mutual comfort but it had been his world for a time; the final link keeping him from losing sanity. It hadn't been for the entire duration of his occupation, they had taken the other away an eternity of darkness later, but now all he could remember clearly of that time was the tactile feel holding his hands.

England's voice recalled him back to the present. As his mind surfaced from the recollections of darker days, a word, no, a name slipped from his lips.

"加拿大..."

"-pardon?"

He blinked and shook his head, gesturing for England to continue whatever he was saying.

"Tell me, lad, be honest. Have you-,' he nervously smoothed down his blond hair, 'I know I'll sound like I'm a madman but hear me out, have you had strange…feelings? Inexplicable ones that come out of nowhere and doesn't seem to be connected to anything in particular, fleeting recollections of impossible memories that seem to add to old memories and make them more…complete, that sort of thing? I mean, I'm not saying I've experienced any myself, but these sorts of things haven't occurred to you, had they?"

His words were oddly specific for someone who claimed to not have experienced them. Hong Kong looked firmly into England's eyes and found them imploring him to tell him otherwise, to settle his nerves about the strange occurrences, to show him that the Brit was having singular hallucinations.

The Darjeeling in his teacup had grown lukewarm as the silence between them stretched unbearably thin.

So he did what he had always done and given him just what he wanted.

"No, I haven't."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The further America progressed the worst the weather conditions became. Holding an arm up to shield his eyes and face, he was practically wading blind after an embodiment of nature whose actual location was entirely based on arbitrary guesstimates. Still he forged on, slicing through the blizzard with his numb body; his legs dragging perfunctorily through the chilling terrain.

How long has it been since he started to follow General Winter?

It felt like hours but could easily have been minutes. Only his super-human stamina kept him going despite everything pitted against him. America let out of a frustrated grunt every time his knee banged against a hidden rock or tree root. He hadn't seen an actual tree for a while now not that he could see much at all. He seriously considered giving up and looking for an alternative solution.

No, he couldn't. Give up doesn't exist in the United State's mental dictionary. He'd gone through tougher situations than this. Besides, what other choice did he have? He had already been grasping at straws with this last idea and Kuma-

Catching himself before he stumbled and face-planted, America cursed and hastened his pace, increasing his strides until he could faintly feel his muscles burn from the exertion.

He had forgotten about the polar bear. It was far too late now to do anything but it should be fine on its own in this climate. He was a polar bear after all.

Grimacing as a twinge of guilt panged in his chest, he threw himself into the chase, leaping through the snowdrifts which at times were waist-deep and seriously deterring his movements.

Again and again he reminded himself what he was fighting for, who he was fighting for, and he would feel a little better, a little less empty inside, remembering the snatches of inadequately recalled memories of his sibling nation and their time together.

In fact he was so caught up in these thoughts that he failed to notice that the raging flurry around him had calmed down. Blinking at the gentle snow fall, America found himself in the middle of a tundra-like area; nothing could be seen for miles around except for endless, untouched snow. On the distant horizon, a sliver of sunset peeked out, growing smaller by the second. Only the whistling of the wind broke the unbearable silence.

General Winter stood before him just a short distance away, appearing to be waiting for and expecting him. Eagerly, he sprinted forward —an act he performed quite easily to his astonishment—until he stopped short, a respectable four feet away. The figure exuded an overwhelming sense of abnormality that came with being a force of nature, reminding him rather explicitly just what and whom he was dealing with.

"**Persistent.**" The baritone voice was raspy in a way that was akin to analog T.V. static and had a distinct echo to it. The sound was not at all pleasant and did little to put the superpower at ease. He shivered; a chill running down his spine.

Instead America squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter with as much as dignity as he could gather within him.

"I've been known to be so," he started off cautiously. "General Winter, do you or do you not know of Canada? He was-, _is_ a country over which your reign extended, part of the Arctic Circle."

There was a brief pause before a reply came, curt and straightforward.

"**Yes.**"

Hope blossomed in his chest; a warm exuberant feeling that melted away the North American nation's inner desolation.

"Do you know what happened to him? Where he's gone?"

Again a pause but this one far longer than the last.

"**They took him.**"

Again with the they, just as the bear had said.

"Who are they? _Why_ did they take Canada?"

"**They are simply they. As for why**,' General Winter raised his head, gazing upwards at the pure unbroken blue, '**because it was tidy**."

"Tidy? What does that mean?" A violent shudder traversed through America's body as the colourless eyes met his but he held himself rigidly and repressed the reaction.

"**He was not needed and was suffering. If he were gone, nothing will be affected and he will be put to rest. It was the best solution, thus a tidy solution.**"

"Are you kidding me? Nothing will be affected, you say? Lots of things have! The other nations still remember even if the memories were erased from their mind, their hearts still remember," his fists clenched tightly at his side as he waited for the outrage to drain out of him. "_I_ still remember. It's not the same without Canada. I..._none of us_ are the same without him."

America did not wait for a reply.

"How can you say he's not needed? How could you be so..." _Cold_.

"**I speak what I believe. You should be asking them for the answers.**"

The wind began to pick up again, alerting him that the conversation may soon be cut short.

"I'm sick and tired of these roundabout answers! Tell me who these 'they' are! Tell me how to find them!"

By now the powdery snow joined the storm, carried on the air currents which grew with intensity by the second.

"**You will not be able to find them.**"

"What do you mean? Explain."

"**We do not answer to the likes of you, just as you to your people who know not of you. We do not ask nor forewarn about our course of action. They are the same and commune not with us. Why should they you? Give up, United States of America, they will realize their mistakes soon and rectify them.**"

"No! Never!" it was a foolish thing to say yet America couldn't help but express his objection. He had come so far; there had to be something he could do.

"Please, General Winter, please. Can't you do something? Even you must miss Canada. He was one of yours after all. Can't you at least try?"

The tall figure held his silence, the storm revitalizing around him.

"Please." It was killing his pride to plead, to beg for help but, and not for the first time, he really couldn't do more. There were stranger powers at work and he was far too low on the supernatural hierarchy to make a complaint. But he'll be damned if he gave up hope now.

The shivers coursing through his cold body increased in frequency. A faint light headed sensation filled his head as he struggled to fight the cold. There was not much time left until it overcame him.

"**Leave, America.**"

With that, the world surrounding the shivering nation burst into raging white flakes. His weak desperate outcry was drowned out as the personification melted into the storm, gone.

Try as he may, America could not bring his weary and numb body to trek any further through the present climate. He managed barely a half-step through the thick drift before falling down onto the soft cold bed of ice. It took the last of energy to turn his head to the side so he could breathe properly. Each ragged exhale rose into the air in a puff of condensation, becoming clearer as the temperature continued to drop.

The feeling in his body withdrew from his extremities; he couldn't even twitch a finger. He couldn't move a single muscle. He felt nothing, not even a thing.

No, no, _no_!

Even as these thoughts streamed through his hazy but stubborn mind, his eyelids grew heavy, coaxing him to sleep and preserve the last of his body heat. He was fighting a losing battle in the middle of frozen tundra, miles and miles from civilization.

As he slipped under the allure of instinctive hibernation, the last real tactile sensation he could perceive was how gently the snowflakes brushed against his cheek and forehead, almost kindly, almost comfortingly.

The last real emotion he felt was despair.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: Oh boy! Cliffhanger! I haven't done one of those in a while. Short explanations are in order, Hong Kong is speaking of the Battle of Hong Kong during World War II and the railway is the Canadian Pacific Railway that stretches across Canada and parts of Northern United States. I know that not all Chinese immigrants were necessarily from Hong Kong (some, for example, were from Taiwan) but a good majority of them were. Of course, recently there are more Mainland Chinese immigrating. I was trying to avoid an overly politic approach but I wanted to discuss a bit about why Hong Kong is so…quiet because uh, I think Hong Kong people are pretty damn rowdy most of the time. And that Chinese bit if it rendered is just Canada in Chinese characters. Also, storm chasing is something they do in the interior of North America. It was all the rage for the while, I'm not too sure if it still is. There may be inaccuracies here in just about anything including but not confined to how the Russian Taiga really works in August, the descriptions of uh…going under from cold, and other stuff. I apologize beforehand if that's the case.

**Until next time! Thank you for reading and I hope you would take the time and drop me a review, telling me what you think. Of course, if you spot any typos or confusing sentences, that would be very helpful.**


	5. Interlude

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Disclaimer: APHetalia is property of Hidekazu Himaruya.

_A/Ns_: It's been a long time and I have no excuse so I will not ask for forgiveness. Thank you, thank you, thank you, you lovely people who continue to express interest in this story. I can't remember where I left off on the replying to reviews but to those who I haven't replied to, thank you very much for your reviews, your opinions, and your thoughts. And also thank you to those who alerted and faved this fic. I'm going to be a jerk and keep you and America suffering for a while longer by posting this interlude. Further author's notes will be at the bottom.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Interlude

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Silence filled the Canadian household that Thursday night. Its sole occupant was reluctant to disturb it despite the uncanny feeling it gave him. Sitting restlessly on the living room sofa, Canada pulled his pocket agenda out of the front of his red pullover, sliding out the short mechanical pencil from its spine. Without further ado, he began reviewing the tasks he had penned down for month.

If there was one thing the North American nation disliked, it was having nothing to do. The few social calls he deemed worthy to write down had back-up plans should the other cancel the occasion. Yet he was no workaholic nor was he particularly obsessive-compulsive even though his schedule revealed nothing but work hours and time set aside for cleaning or rearranging furniture pieces.

He was lonely; it was as simple as that.

Every moment his mind was unoccupied by even the most mundane action, his thoughts promptly jumped to the subject of his lack of presence in the world, on his accursed quiet nature, on the times he had been ignored or forgotten.

Nothing scared him more than being left alone with his depressing thoughts which if allowed would multiply in seconds and nothing chased it away better than the simplest of tasks. So he dutifully kept himself busy all hours of the day and night. Never did he take time to wind down unless he had a newspaper or a novel handy.

That evening he had nothing else to do. He had taken care of the laundry, done the dishes, swept, mopped and vacuumed every room although it had taken him the entire day at his own leisurely pace. Whenever he could he tried to prolong activities even if to other people he was wasting lots of precious time.

Flipping through the well-leafed pages, the Canadian wondered absentmindedly where his constant companion Kumagorou had run off to as he didn't show up at dinner time as usual. Still, it was not his immediate concern as the polar bear would often meander off into the wilderness next to their home to get back in touch with nature for several days at a time.

Chewing on his bottom lip, a thought occurred to him. He searched for a day in the following month to make an appointment to process some papers at his government's office. Turning the page, a familiar date caught his eye.

July First.

The entire week for it was devoid of any scheduled events apart from a scribbled reminder on the starting time of his Southern neighbour's birthday party this year in the square for July Fourth and one on July Second for his evening flight's departure time to New York (as he had promised his neighbour to help set up for the festivities).

Pale fingers traced the text solemnly.

When was the last time he celebrated his birthday with other nations? The answer escaped him though he was not eager to chase after it. Some time along the way, he had stopped bothering as his party invitations were rarely answered (once upon a time he preferred to pretend that they were lost in the mailing process rather than discarded as junk mail) or their replies were addressed to his brother instead (understandable as the dates were rather close, or so he would say if anyone asked).

Canada stopped caring, stopped taking his birthday seriously (of course, he observed his own people's celebrations fondly and accepted the obligatory Happy Birthday from his boss with a polite smile) as all that did was bring him heartache which he already had aplenty. It had become just another day in the year, nothing special about it.

No one else remembered so the date had only been special to himself.

However, there was that one time...

–

"_Oh my god, why didn't you tell me?"_

_Canada furrowed his eyebrows in agitation and turned over in his twin-sized bed. Waking up to his brother nation spouting nonsense was not his idea of a good morning. He tugged the plush quilt over his head in hopes that it would muffle the noise as well as the glaring late summer sunlight._

"_What are you talking about…?" he grumbled into the pillow. The mattress dipped next to him as America sat down, grabbing hold of the blanket to vie for his fuzzy attention. A half-hearted tug-of-war broke out for a couple minutes before the drowsy blond received an answer._

"_Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?" A tinge of guilt in his voice dampened his energetic volume as well as his grip. In that moment of weakness, the quilt slipped out of his slackened fingers._

"_It's not my birthday. That was two months ago, America." Which he might have known if he hadn't forgotten again, he added inwardly._

"_That's why I asked! Why didn't you tell me? I was going to get you a cake—ice cream because it's our favourite—and everything!"_

_Bedsprings squeaked as the superpower made vigorous sweeping gestures outlining the arbitrary size of the prospective cake-and-everything. Groaning, Canada burrowed deeper into the cooling sheets, willingly his noisy (and uninvited) guest to shut up and leave him alone._

_It wouldn't have matter if he had told him because his southern neighbour would without a doubt forget the whole incident completely within the hour and that was being generous. America was more prone to forgetting around the time of Independence Day as his head would be abuzz with extravagant celebration ideas for his own birthday. Canada was so used to this he didn't think much of it._

_"It's nothing important, America. Go home and let me sleep."_

_"Not important?" There was a touch of hysteria in his voice. "How can you even say that? It's like __the__ most important day of the year for any person, er, nation person!"_

_"Yeah? Doesn't feel like it to me. I could do without it."_

_"I can't believe I'm hearing this."_

_"Well, believe it-, hey!" Scrambling for his blankets, or lack thereof, the Northern nation glared with every ounce of morning crankiness in his lanky body at America and was taken aback to find the serious eyes boring into his own._

"Don't you ever say that again, bro. Never," the stern crease on his brow softened. "A birthday is important. It represents the day you were born, the day you became a part of us and this world. Everyone's birthday is important and so is yours."

Determined azure blue held his surprised violet eyes for a stretched silent moment. Canada dropped his gaze to the rumpled quilt, the powdery lavender and vanilla white soothed and distracted him from the inexplicable squeeze inside his chest. Outside, sweet trills rang through the warm post-summer air.

"Hey, my fishing tackle and stuff are still here, right? I know you have the day off, so...you want to go up to the lake?" America scratched the back of his neck, trying to sound offhanded. 

_The simple gesture tugged at the corner of his lips._

"Yeah, I'd like that."  
  
–

The distant memory settled on his lax shoulders like a toasty blanket. America had never failed to celebrate his birthday, just never on the actual date itself, but those simple words had lifted his spirits with regards to his forgotten birthdays. It would never be enough to make up for everything but it was good enough.

Sitting quietly, the Northern nation allowed himself to bask in the warm glow of that recollection. Seconds ticked by when a heated emotion lanced through the content cloud of happiness.

His eyes snapped open as a wrathful fire burned in the pit of his stomach, his fingers digging into the agenda pages to contain the violent urges thrumming through his veins.

"Why...?"

It was difficult to think clearly as his mind flooded with impulses, egged on by reasons he had forgotten. Teeth gritted, the small book bounced once on the upholstery as he dropped it beside him onto the two-seater with great difficult, wanting for all the world to hurl it across the living room.

Black ballpoints clattered across the coffee table as he scrambled for a sheet of blank paper. The mechanical pencil in his grip was held so tightly it was close to snapping in half as he pushed the tip into sheet and wrote.

Anything, everything.

Nonsense, factual evidence.

Trivial things, significant events.

Scribbles and words filled the blue-lined space as Canada poured out his bizarre onslaught of sudden anger, the pencil his medium. By the time he had filled the entirety of both surfaces, the side of his writing hand gleamed with carbon-graphite; millimetres of snapped lead littered the glass surface.

Without looking at what had been written down, Canada unceremoniously tore it in half. Laboriously he continued this process until tiny scraps drifted away like paper snow to settle on the carpet.

He should be feeling better by now. He had done this exercise time and time again whenever he was alone and remember things best left forgotten, times and incidents he thought he had buried and put to rest. Ripping the paper had left a grim temporary satisfaction in him every time. Yet this once the beast raged on, clawing, convulsing in its flesh prison, spurred by the intense desire for release and vengeance.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, he walked over to the fireplace in three strides, tossing the remains of the paper inside where it fluttered and mingled with the black soot. A few seconds passed while he located the matchbox on the mantle, tucked behind a photo frame. The image immortalized behind the glass caused him to pause a mere moment.

His noticeably younger self stared back at him through the ages surrounded by those he called family, the rigid solemn expression and wide child-like eyes captured in aged sepia. Flash-frozen innocence observed him judgingly.

Averting his gaze, he struck a match, dropping it into hearth.

Watching the paper touch the licks of flames, curling then crumbling, the anger too had dissipated. In its wake, a puddle of deep sorrow filled the spot it vacated, draining the vicious heat dry. Canada shivered at the inner chill and the eeriness perpetuating his home, its presence of which he had only just noticed.

"Why am I feeling like this...?"

The last of the flames died away, ashes smouldering on the blackened masonry. Rubbing the deadening ache in his forehead, he ignored the tears pushing their way out and rose to his feet.

Maybe he was tired. Maybe he should just go to bed and when he wakes up in the morning, everything would be alright. All the problems would go away if he could just sleep.

His movements grew sluggish, not from fatigue but a complete lack of motivation.

By the time his foot touched the first step of the carpeted stairs, there was nothing. An empty void opened up inside, devoid of emotion and thought. He couldn't bring himself to care, even as he slumped forward halfway up to the second floor and lost consciousness.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: And there we have it. It's kind of confusing but this is the scene before Canada was taken by the whatevers. To explain a little for those who didn't get anything (it's really hard to follow I think, I don't think I wrote it well enough to convey what I mean), when the weird things started happening that was when 'they' were sticking their hands into the situation and subtracting away bits of Canada. Every bit that gets taken away is replaced by something else to feel emotional vacuum until everything was eventually taken away. I don't actually have the 'they' fleshed out as characters per se, they are more like a presence so I doubt they will show up in a distinct form later in the fic for those who are curious. Currently, I am still trying to figure out a good climax for the story. What I have is a bit…on the bland side. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this little intermission (I don't like how it came out). Hopefully, you will hear from me and this fic sooner rather than later.

**Once again, thank you for reading. Questions, thoughts, complaints are welcome! Just pop it in a review!**


	6. Chapter 5

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: The Russian Taiga and the confrontation with General Winter. Elsewhere, England settles his concerns with Hong Kong.

_A/Ns_: How long has it been since I updated…ah well. I'm not quite happy with how this chapter turned out either. The first scene was a major roadblock and I had to rewrite it a couple times. The last two scenes I had really anticipated writing but I don't think they came out as well as I wanted (the pacing might also be a problem…). Anyways, thank you people again and always for your continual support. I don't remember where I stopped in replying to reviews but I want you to know that they are always appreciated and rereading them really helps me remember that people want to read more of this. Thank you again and sorry for the long delay.

Also, _**I've revised the previous chapters**_ for the mistakes and some other kinks I found in the text. Thanks again for looking out for those!

**Short Lexicon**:

Cестра́: Sister

Белару́сь_: _Belarus

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

America was dreaming.

He was dreaming of an endless battle in which he fought enemies intangible, invisible to the eye. They mocked him without restraint; every one of their naked insults a raw blow to his conscience filling the hazy white dreamscape with cruel laughter-edged echoes.

_Shut up_.

Time existed in this plane only to mark the ever-growing frustration inside him as he ineffectually swung his clenched fists through the air at his untouchable adversaries every time a particular remark hit home. His wild movements became sluggish from exhaustion, the corners of his eyes stung with enraged tears.

_Shut up_!

A hand snagged the back of his coat, jolting him out of his one-sided battle. It did not pull him back nor did it restrain and hold him in place. It was but simply, and how he understood this he knew not, a silent plea to stop. He turned around; the cruel voices still goading him and yet seemed to fade into the background.

A relieved smile and the pale hand released him, satisfied with his response.

_Who_...?

Thin lips parted, mouthing something to him. With near omniscient understanding that was only possible within dreams, America nodded his head at the request despite his obvious inability to perform the task by himself.

This person was familiar. So achingly familiar. Where have they me-

_Wait_!

He reached forward too late. His gloved hand passed through the space previously occupied by the figure that vanished with the dream it inhabited.

Wake up, America, he had said.

He did.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The roaring fire crackled as the hunched figure tending to it fed the healthy flame another frozen tree branch. Behind him, the restless figure showed signs of arousal, the grasps of sleep losing grip.

America laid there, eyes clenched shut in hopes that the dream would return and with it the desperately sought-after image of his lost brethren. If only life were that easy.

"Canada..."

Opening his eyes with a final reluctant sigh, an irregular low ceiling loomed above him grey-white and unblemished. The corners and rims of his eyes burned with fever. Every tiny involuntary twitch of his body sent a jolt of prickling pain through him, discomfiting through the receding numbness. As his memory of recent events slowly returned, he cursed rasping from his parched throat.

The figure by the fire looked up briefly at his dry coughs before turning back to his meal.

"The water is not yet ready."

America jerked his head towards the sound of the odd voice, a curious overlap of young and mature vocals. A bout of dizziness overcame him for a moment. Unnerving wasn't the right word because no normal person, no normal creature on Earth could naturally produce what he heard. Oddly enough the choppy quality of it was faintly familiar.

Against the brilliant light, the lanky creature wearing the form of a man, unclothed and primitive, was little more than a solid silhouette. While the shape was human, there was something distinctly inhuman about it, from its posture, its body language and so forth. The cramped dwelling which appeared to be completely closed off was barren apart from a strange and large unidentifiable lump to the right of the man-shape.

"Wh-..." he broke off again. With his limbs feeling as heavy as lead, attempts to turn onto his side were futile. A single thought repeated—blinking, siren-like—in his muggy mind over and over. Friend or Foe?

"I spoke with him in your place," the figure explained calm and without much emotion, hunching forward to prod the fire with a choice branch, "He will see to it the best he can."

His thick thatch of silvery hair caught the flame's light.

"You-!" Impo-, no, improbable was the word, but...

"Me." The dark figure continued to stoke the flames methodically. "Your assumptions are correct."

_Shit, is he_-

"No, I have no skill in mind reading, but," a bare hand rose, one thin finger indicating each facial feature with the associated ability as he spoke. "I can smell it. I can hear it. I can _feel_ it. The confusion, the panic. It may be useful to know that you are rather honest with your expressions, _America_."

Swallowing thickly, America found his voice. He spoke between heaving dry coughs, nasal from his cold.

"What, what did he say? Wha-"

"Lie down and calm yourself, you're contaminating my coat."

Casting his blue-eyed gaze downward, he spotted the matted white draped over his body. Wisps of fur tickled his nose as he looked back and forth between the makeshift blanket and the figure. In the recesses of his memory, there was a faint recollection of an Inuit legend about polar bears that shed their furs and obtain human form. If he didn't already feel feverish, he would've considered turning ill at the implications this brought to mind. Weak, he suppressed the thoughts; at least it was warm.

"Never mind that, tell me," he said, swallowing the dryness and turning towards the red glow.

"I have already passed on what he said: _He will see to it the best he can_. That is all."

The nonchalant attitude the humanoid creature radiated stoked his sluggish displeasure.

"…that's it? All it took," America bit back an oncoming cough as anger boiled thickly inside him, obviously the frustration that built up inside him during the dream had not dissipated, "was _you _talking to him? I ran through the Russia outback in my sneakers to talk to him, to beg him to listen and help me and he doesn't listen to a single thing I say yet he-, _Why the hell_ did I even go through that? Why couldn't you have just-"

His mouth froze in midsentence, words caught in his aching throat. The other one had turned to face him and although he could make out very little the orange light only served to intensify the chilling stare boring down at him.

"Because there's only so much that we can do." The defensive finality to that statement shut him up effectively, but it was more due to the pain in his voice—an ancient suffering—that he refrained from responding.

"Let me tell you a story." His statement took America by surprise but being unable to protest effectively, not that he had a clear reason to, he could only lie back and listen.

The other's gaze turned skywards as he began his tale, the fire crackling mystically in the background.

"We have a story told by the people who dwell in the Arctic about how the sun and moon came to be; the legend of Sister Sun and Brother Moon. The legend begins with a pair of siblings, one girl and the other boy," the man-creature recited, scratching two pictorial representations of the titular characters into the cold hard dirt between them. "The brother was entranced by his sister's beauty and one day when a strong wind blew out all the lamps, he made love to her in the darkness. Because she could not see, the sister was unable to ascertain who had done it. The following night she coated her hands in ashes and when the perpetrator returned in the darkness of the unlit room to repeat the act, she was able to smear the soot onto his back.

"Once the lamps were rekindled and her brother stood there with tell-tale black stains on his back, the sister was outraged that he could commit such a deed. Snatching a torch on her way out, she escaped into the darkness. Her sibling chased after her, taking a torch of his own, but he tripped and fell into the snow, extinguishing the fire to mere embers. Nevertheless their chase continued through the darkness until they rose into the sky. The sister became the sun, Sister Sun, with her bright burning torch and the brother took his place as the moon, Brother Moon, with the faint glow of his embers.

"From then on their chase continued, Sister Sun always ahead of her brother, thus creating night and day," to the crude sketches he added two enclosing arcs, placing them in an endless loop, "When one catches up with the other, during the ellipses, what do you suppose happens?"

Taken aback by the question, the superpower did not answer, unsure whether it was meant to be taken rhetorically or not.

"Some say the brother apologizes to the sister but she scorns his apology and starts off again. Others say that Brother Moon too was angry with his sister after all this time, the original story being somewhat different, and when they meet on these rare occasions they only argue and fight, spurring the chase on again."

The man-shape sat unmoving, fingers tracing the circle drawn into the dirt, digging the lines deeper with its sharp nails.

"You are thinking: Why does he tell me this story? Am I right?" Before he could give his affirmation, he continued. "Sister Sun and Brother Moon never reconcile, for if they did, the chase would come to an end. There is no epilogue, no continuation to this story after they become the sun and moon. They will never reconcile. They will never return to the land from their orbit in the sky. They never interacted with others like Sedna and so forth and never will. All they can do is run, run through the sky endlessly. Why? Because that's how their story goes and that is how it is.

"I tell you all this because I want you to understand that supernatural beings cannot mingle as we please; our relationships, our bonds are decidedly ultimately by our believers, those who created us and sustain us with their faith and belief. My kind is a different sort from the religion you know and are accustom to, though not all of us share the same fate. Once the story that dictates our interactions on this Earth ends, we remain immortal as long as we are remembered, and we remain the very same. We do not meet with those we were never said to have met, we can only remain at where legends end, and we can never continue forward. For us, who have unresolved endings and are restricted by our finite powers, it is the same as dying, perhaps worse."

The words spilled out, hurried and chaotic as white water rapids, the wizen storyteller pace of his earlier words drowned in emotion.

"If that's true, then why were you able to accompany Canada all the time?" America asked, unable to help himself. The anger from earlier still stirred in his stomach as he did not take well to manipulation, not even suspected manipulation, but at the moment, curiosity took priority. "He always took you with him to meetings and everything."

"I gave up being a deity. For that, I lost connection to the land and its people. The only thing I retained from my previous life was my voice and my owner," his voice softened, the unnatural quality faded just the slightest. "It was enough."

All was quiet, one lost in thought and the other unwilling to break the silence.

Observing the fallen mythical creature now, the North American personification realized General Winter's aura was far greater than this one's, even though at first he had lumped them into the same category. While both had a general feel of being worn down from age, the supernatural being sitting before him was weakened by this natural erosion, its power dwindling as the seconds ticked by.

"Putting that aside," the creature said abruptly, "you are too foolhardy. Unyielding determination is a gift to cherish, a courage many lack, but it can also blinded you from both the good and the bad. We had not much time to speak before he departed but as for 'they'-"

A howling interrupted him though muffled by the thick layer of compacted snow, its sheer volume penetrating the makeshift shelter loud enough to drown out his words. Goosebumps peppered his skin at the sound which America could not differentiate as a cry produced by a living creature or something else entirely. The fevered flush drained away from his cheeks, leaving in its wake his pale unadulterated fear.

When the noise ebbed away, a bowl of smooth bone was pressed to his lips; lukewarm melted snow filled his mouth so abruptly he choked. As refreshing as it was, the sickly congealed saliva went down with it, upsetting his stomach. Licking at his chapped lips, he tasted something else in the water and opened his mouth to ask when he was swiftly, purposefully, intercepted. With urgency, the rest of the bowl's contents were tipped into his mouth and though he tried desperately not to swallow, his plugged nose left him no other option.

"This may very well be the last time we will speak, I do not have much remaining power left nor a source to replenish it," the other said while he forced the nation to ingest his concoction. "There is one thing I need you to remember, you _must_ remember this."

Their eyes met in that instant, America found himself staring into impossibly black depths. He had so many things he wanted to ask, wanted to say but there was no strength in him now to speak let alone protest. Whatever he had drunk was beginning to take its effect, a warm haze enveloping him, coaxing his fevered mind to sleep. Gathering the last of his energy, he nodded his head.

"You must bring him home. All of him. Do not stray in your purpose. Bring him back to us."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Bottles of all sizes and make littered the surface of the parlour's tea table, each one of them empty of their original contents. Buried behind them were crystal tumblers, forgotten and unused, after several hours of drinking. The sole occupant of the house laid sprawled upon a Victorian wingback chair off to the side, nursing a half-empty brandy.

As uncouth as his manner of drink was, England raised it to his lips, bent on draining the rest of the liquid in one life-threatening swallow. Were he not a nation, he would surely have been dead some three litres previous. Undeterred by the pressing need to once again frequent the lavatory, he finished off the remainder of the drink. The empty container fell from his slack fingers with a dull thud onto the carpeted floor.

It was curious how the more he drank the more sober he felt, having consumed so much alcohol he had long since pushed passed the stage of raving drunkenness that was his trademark. Most aggravating was that the purpose and objective for his heavy drinking had not at all been met. The little nagging feeling in the back of his mind he had attempted to drown out was ever present, unaffected by the depressants flooding his bloodstream. So saturated with alcohol was his circulatory system that the Briton would be wholly unsurprised if it oozed out of him through his pores. Gazing blearily at the ceiling plaster, he found the image quite interesting albeit on the gruesome side.

After the burning in his throat subsided, the nagging feeling returned with redoubled efforts to pester him. It was time for more liquor then.

Groping the side of his chair for another bottle, he found there were none; a glance down proved the same reality, much to his annoyance. He then turned his attention briefly to the cabinet opposite where his prized and most expensive bottles were displayed before rejecting the notion. Surely they were worth far more than to drown his sorrows with and if his memory served him correctly, there were some cases of something or other—he couldn't quite remember at the moment—tucked away in the wine cellar.

Jumping to his feet, unsteady on the landing, England stumbled his way to the hallway and, with the logic of a drunken man, eventually found himself in the attic.

The air was musty and thick from lack of circulation; nevertheless the Western European nation shoved his way through the boxes, which were abundant in number and clearly showed the length of his nation's history. There was no liquor up here, he concluded after a once over of the boxes, and slumped dejected and exhausted against an ancient leather travelling trunk.

Running his fingers over the thick straps, the scent of sea salt—real or imagined, either way—tickled his nose. This weather-worn case had been his constant companion as much as his crew had been during the latter half of the decades when he dabbled in piracy and for the entirety of his Imperialist days. Only after his Majesty's Empire was threatening to dissolve did he store it away, an unceremonious close to another chapter of his life.

Overflowing with nostalgia, he lifted up the old wireless set sitting on top and set it aside before undoing the bindings which he had added to the trunk after the lock broke from the turbulence of storms at sea. An assortment of forgotten memorabilia laid inside—trinkets from conquests, seafaring apparatuses and several hardcover tomes. They were photo albums, enrobed in the traditional Royal blue. He selected one at random and propped it open in his lap.

Starting from the back, the photographs pasted onto the thick card there were in colour (a commercial novelty at the time and very pricey), muted with age. The youthful faces of Australia, New Zealand and Hong Kong gazed up at him, the slender figure of India in the background focused on something outside the camera's view. Recognizing the stadium where it was taken, he recalled with vividness the events brewing behind the snapshot. The close-mouthed Asian teen had not been a participant in the Commonwealth Games—called the British Empire Games back then he believed—but had tagged along to observe the opening ceremony in Sydney where it was held that year. From the childish mirth in their bright eyes, it was hard to believe that they had already experienced a world war and were set to, in barely more than a year's time, enter a second international conflict.

Flipping through the rest of the volume and pausing now and then to examine a particular page thoroughly, old memories resurfaced with every still he laid his eyes on. Soon the rest of the collection were piled next to him as he ploughed through them, hungry for more recollections of his 'better' days. As he watched his former colonies de-age from page to page and the photographs disappeared, gradually replaced by pencil sketches, prints of etchings and other traditional forms of picture-taking, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, paternal longing swelling in his chest.

Warmed by a ray of early morning sunshine leaking through the boarded up attic window, the contents of the trunk were meticulously put into order so the books could be replaced inside when his fingers, still clumsy under the influence, caught hold of the velvet cloth lining and, to his surprise, pulled it away. Underneath the covering were more tomes of a simple cardstock brown, much larger in size but slimmer in thickness. England didn't remember putting those there but pried them from their hiding place with care all the same.

Though in decent condition for its age, the binding was done inexpertly (perhaps hand-bound) and parts had been mended painstakingly. Each volume, he noticed, bore only a number on each of the front covers' labels. The wrinkly state of the yellowing pages had resulted from heavy thumbing, a sign that they were often perused.

Opening it at random, a drawing tucked inside slid out onto the dusty attic floor with the side bearing the adhesive face up, dried and no longer serviceable. Reaching over and fetching the fallen card paper, England turned it right side up with a flick of his fingers. The glowing warmth in his belly built up from the liquor and the albums drained away in an instant.

An eighteenth century America grinned cheekily out of the paper. The ink representation was toting a hunting rifle and boasting his prize—a waterfowl from the shape of it—to the artist. And there next to him was the Briton himself, stiff-jawed but happy. He remembered the exact circumstances that had transpired when he commissioned for this to be drawn up, the lad had rushed up to him demanding that he be taught how to handle a rifle and hunt game shortly after the North American colony's unanticipated growth spurt and shortly before—-

Unable to bear the emotional weight seeing this picture brought him, he stuffed it back inside feeling childish while he did. He handled it quite well when sober but under the influence it was just too much.

Looking through the rest of the album, he found it filled with a younger America, a cheerful spirited young boy depicted in pencil and, on occasion, paint set against unsettled outback and primitive buildings.

He was so obedient back in the day, easy to understand and almost as easy to satisfy. A little trinket or two could quell three month's build-up of discontent upon his late return.

Indeed, things had been going well, far too well by his standards. Such a happy family they had been. At present however the superpower was unfathomable, stubbornly secretive and independent.

The image of America's prone form from that encounter a couple weeks ago surfaced. His appearance had been wild and disordered, tears streaming down his thin cheeks. Almost a mirror of h—

Subconsciously his fingers continued to turn the pages throughout his musings, already halfway through the second one. At this point England only just realized that empty spaces, even entire blank pages, grew more and more frequent. In the third album though, every page was filled up despite the pictures being so aged they could come off from the slightest disturbance. How odd.

The nagging feeling rushed forward now the moment the thought crossed his mind. Fed up with it, he resisted the urge to literally knock it out of his head and instead massaged his temple harshly. Deciding to stow away his findings, he peered into the trunk; one last volume laid at the bottom.

How had he missed it?

His mood dampened considerably coupled with the incessant itch in his cranium made the prospect of a good night's (or day's as it were) sleep very attractive. Piling the brown books in their designated places, he was more than eager to throw the velvet cloth over the lot again, hiding them from existence—out sight, out of mind—until the next time he wandered up here in a drunken stupor.

A twitch of his hand, a moment's delay was all it took for his sluggish mind to make the connection. The final tome had no label card on the front and logically speaking it would have to follow the first one he picked up according to the numbering; yet that shouldn't be possible given that after he cut off ties there followed no event that deserved to be preserved in photo form. All official meetings after that were kept in the album in his study with all the other snapshots of international congregations. The blue bound collection covered his Commonwealth in its entirety.

Reluctantly England dug out the title-less book. It looked no different from the other ones, same make, pages also worn from use. Anticipation thrummed through his body as he hooked a finger around the cover, there was something awry about the whole affair that peaked his curiosity just the slightest.

The blank space that greeted him was a disappointment to say the least. Empty page after empty page fluttered by, interrupted by the occasional sketch of prairies, lakes and snow-peaked mountains, harbours and the like. A few depicted America in his early boyhood, even a few featuring himself. The scatterbrained layout of the illustrations was definitely suspicious but as he had no explanation for why this was so, he could only sigh and continue to peruse the book at a leisurely pace, hoping something would pop out.

Once again the nagging feeling threw itself full force into the fore of his mind. Short of a migraine, England snapped aloud finally unable to withstand it. Unlike those times his peers had teased him for talking to himself (when he was really converse with his fairy friends), this time they would be correct in every sense.

"What do you want? Leave me be already, I don't understand what you want and I don't care!"

Practically a life of its own, it refused to desist. There was a bizarre familiar quality to it that he couldn't put his finger on.

Deeply agitated his deep green eyes fell upon the cream-yellow pages again for a second.

He looked again.

And then he really looked.

Through what was certainly magic not invoked by himself, the pages had filled themselves. Every single one captured a slender blond unknown to him. Mystified by this development, he went through the previous pages; all had become filled as well.

A pencil sketch of a flourishing wheat field now contained the fair haired boy, pitchfork and bucket at hand. There he was in the one of the lake which he now could tell was frozen over given that the youth appeared to be skating across the surface. Another captured a younger version of the blond splashing through a brook with a child America.

A ghost?

Whoever he was, he was very familiar. Indeed he shared hauntingly similar features with the other blond child depicted. But what did this mean?

England flipped back to the last page bearing a glossy 11 x 14 print. Set against the standard creamy deep blue backdrop was the Brit himself, straight back and shoulders squared, seated in a chair not unlike the one he had just spent most of his evening in. Flanking him from the right, the mysterious blond youth stood turned slightly away from the camera's view and towards the chair. Both donned smart looking three piece suits for the photo shoot and smiled marginally.

The ghost boy's gentle gaze, a soft blue tinged almost violet, met his through the photograph. If England didn't know better, he would say the boy looked apologetic.

Fingers tracing the shape of the youth's jaw then the wave of his golden tresses (which reminded him irritatingly of a certain French idiot he knew), he noticed a slight deformation in the paper. Slipping his hand underneath, his fingertips encountered a small object in the narrow space. With care, the item was dislodged and now sat in the palm of his hand.

It was a small handcrafted dream catcher, feathered and beaded. He remembered an excited America in his white baptismal robes presenting it to him, however, this time the ghost boy (dressed similarly) appeared in the memory as well, hiding his face behind a furry white toy, his free hand held tight in America's.

An abrupt buzzing startled him into dropping the charm.

Cursing under his breath, he wrestled his mobile from his slacks' pocket to find the obligatory text message Germany sent out to remind everyone about the upcoming meeting. Deleting it, the last text in the inbox caught his eye—the SM America sent bearing just the word 'Canada'.

The ghost boy's image came to mind in a flash. He looked back and forth between the mobile's screen and the photo.

Could he be…?

_England_.

A quiet voice said, so surprised he was that at first he thought someone else was in the room. Raising his head, he scanned his immediate surroundings in a panic.

After calming down and confirming that he was alone in the attic, he decided that it was all in his head, such as when one recalled someone's voice.

But he didn't know this voice. Did he?

_You really need to clean this up, someone's liable to trip over it_.

Jerking around sharply he saw him.

The ghost boy, a young man in his late teens or early twenties now, beamed merrily at him from where he was crouching next to a wooden crate. His round framed glasses did not hide the brilliant blue-violets behind the lens; an errant curl bobbed over his matured face.

_Don't give me that look, England. I'll help you out_.

The words 'Don't bother yourself, you're my guest; I'll do it in my spare time' danced on the tip of his tongue.

Then he was gone.

Blinking once then twice, he squeezed the bridge of his nose, thick eyebrows furrowed.

It-, he must be working too hard. With America's mysterious behaviour and his migraines, that didn't seem too unreasonably of an answer. He had been feeling unusually under the weather lately and had pegged it as a side effect of the poor economy and the complications that came with being a member of the European Union.

If he was already suffering hallucinations under from the stress, it was about time that he retired to bed.

As much as he deliberated over bringing the book down to his workshop for an exorcism, England's patience was at its limit with all the bad feelings it was bringing, not to mention the headache and the hallucinations. He made short work of replacing everything, making sure the title-less book sat at the very bottom, and practically flew down the attic steps.

Physically drained, the sheets looked far more inviting than a quick shower so, neglecting a change of clothes as well, the former British Empire loosened his belt and flopped onto the bed welcoming sleep heartily.

A bulge in his pocket discomfited him momentarily. Sitting up to take out his phone, something else fell out with it.

The dream catcher.

It sat there on his pristine white sheets harmless. No magical aura or anything at all, just a plain child's handicraft.

He must have pocketed it by accident during the clean up. Picking up, he examined it again and, after ascertaining again that there was nothing suspicious about it, hung the Native American charm on his bedside lamp. The old feathers swayed innocently as he placed his mobile underneath.

A yawn crawling up his throat, he dropped his head to the softness of his pillows, putting behind him all the abnormality he experienced today.

After all, with the sheer volume of alcohol he had consumed taken into consideration, he was bound to forget the whole incident when he wakes up.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

America could only recall what happened next as a hurricane of blurry images; lumber, the rest of the stock, was tossed into the flames; the horrible howling returned in stereo; the lump silhouetted against the fire's light now illuminated by the growing flames could be distinguished as an animal carcass, its glassy lifeless eye a distorted mirror of its surrounding; an uncomfortable heat; pure white nothing followed by mute darkness.

He woke up this time to a higher ceiling of heavily shadowed wood, cast by the firelight nearby.

A sheen of cold sweat layered his body now that his fever broke; his clothes stuck uncomfortably to his damp skin. Still incredibly drained of energy, he desired nothing else but to fall asleep once more. He turned awkwardly under the heavy quilt tucked around him to get comfortable.

A young lady bundled in heavy winter gear stood at his bedside, obviously not the nice wipe-the-sweat-off-your-fevered-brow sort from the long combat knife in her gloved grasp. Her attention and target however was not the bed's ill occupant but a furred creature at her feet.

"S-, stop!" America yelled, pushing himself up and nearly falling off the bed altogether from the ensuing bout of dizziness.

The long haired girl shifted her sharp intense gaze at his interruption, the lengthy blade catching the light, still held poised in position to strike. From the white silk ribbon in her hair, he was able to deduce her identity.

"I said leave him alone!"

"And why should I?" Belarus intoned in her thick Slavic accent, frigid fury edged every syllable as deadly as her blade. At her feet, Kumajirou struggled to free himself from the coarse netting he was tangled in, low growls of disapproval rumbling from his bulky form.

"What has the little guy done to you?" he responded, coughing.

This wasn't the best situation to confront while under the weather. Without his glasses, he could barely see and had to resort to squinting and approximating. Head spinning, he pushed the quilt halfway off of his body and made to retrieve the polar bear when the Belarusian beauty flashed him a warning with her weapon. Her chilling lilac glare grew fiercer if possible, distorting her more delicate features.

"What _it_ has _done to me_?" she repeated, spitting the words out from outrage. Making a breakthrough with the net, the arctic creature attempted to scramble to safety with one of its limbs and its snout still entangled. A sleek black hiking boot came down heavily in front of it, cutting off its path.

She drew back her knife arm, ready to plunge it into the snow white fur when America lunged forward, simultaneously shoving her away and grabbing hold of the struggling bear. The moment she regained her balance, she angled her blade for another strike.

"Stop it! Are you crazy?"

"Why are you protecting this _monster_?"

Though baffled by her question, America answered swiftly, his cornflower blue gaze resolute:

"Because he's important to my brother!"

Wincing from an anticipated strike, he tensed but found that Belarus had refrained from attacking a second time and instead stepped forward, her form came to loom above him, a near silhouette with the fire behind her.

"Then you should understand where I'm coming from," she spat, grip tightening on the handle.

"I don't get you at all." And really he didn't. Just to be safe however, the superpower did not avert his gaze despite the ferocious of her inexplicable rage in case she decided to try again.

Brow creased, the arm carrying the combat knife dropped to her side.

"That _thing_," she hissed through her teeth with genuine contempt, "made my sister cry. And _you_, you did something to brother; he has not been the same since returning from his trip escorting _you_."

"Sister?" He dimly recalled an older blonde woman with a well endowed chest. In the split second when he was occupied with his thoughts, Belarus drew her arm back into position.

"Whoa! I told you to stop that!" he shoved the bear behind his back to keep it out of range. "Whatever is up with Russia is not my business 'cause I didn't do anything to him. Look, I'll scold this guy later for making your sister cry, okay? Killing the poor thing is, well, overkill, don't you think?"

"It would be a mercy if it simply died." The temperature in their immediate surroundings seemed to drop at the sound of her voice. He hadn't heard such chilling anger from any nation since the Cold War. "Every single time sister lays her eyes on that _thing_, she is overcome with heartache. She may have a soft heart but her strength has kept her from tears in graver situations, yet the moment she looks at that," she ground it out like it was a filthy curse word, "that _thing_ again the tears start anew. '_To keep forgetting like this_, _I'm such a horrible friend'_, she would say. I don't understand what she means. All I know is that that thing is hurting her and if she never sees it again..."

Somehow the incomplete statement made it worse than an explicit answer.

"I can't let you do that." Swallowing hard, he continued uneasily. "This guy is my brother's precious friend. I can't just sit back and let you do whatever you want with him."

"That is not a problem," she said, coming closer now. Any emotion resembling sensibility or restraint had disappeared from her eyes. "You have committed a crime against my beloved brother. I have no preference for which of you dies first."

Shuffling back, America felt the bed frame press through his dress shirt; Kumajirou must have slipped underneath some time ago.

It was obvious she was not going to listen to reason, whatever reason he had anyways, and he didn't have his gun on him either, having left it behind to avoid complications at the airport. Desperate he groped along the floorboards for something he could use to defend himself.

As she advanced, injury, even fatality, seemed imminent if not for the timely arrival of the third occupant of the old cabin.

Closing the storage room door behind her, Ukraine entered the main room—the dark knee-length down coat she wore straining to enclose her torso. Seeing her own sister nation holding their bedridden guest at knife point stunned her into silence, the carefully constructed smile slid off her face as her mouth fell open slightly in horror.

Fortunately her unexpected appearance had caused a long enough delay that no blood was spilt yet.

"Belarus?" she whispered hoarsely when she found her voice again, her light blue eyes bright and wide. "What are you doing?"

Caught red-handed, the addressed personification tilted her head slightly so she could see her sister at the edge of her peripheral vision but in the process she had neither lowered her guard nor her blade.

"Cестра́…"

"What are you doing, Belarus?" Ukraine asked again, firmly. The astonishment had vanished, replaced by a hardened front unreadable to America who observed this development muted.

Biting her lip worrisomely enough to draw blood, Belarus shifted her attention back to the defenceless superpower for a moment. She was in the perfect position to deal with him right then however…

"_Белару́сь_," she repeated persistently in Russian, their shared lingua franca, and approached the pair with light cautious steps. When the Ukrainian woman reached out to touch her sister's shoulder, Belarus jerked away and, without meeting the other woman's eyes, strode over to the doorway her sister just came from, platinum blond hair streaming behind her. Only when the lock clicked after a savage slam of the door did the two left behind relax.

"I apologize for the trouble my sister has caused you. I hope you have it in your heart to forgive her, Mister America," Ukraine said tenderly, offering to help him back onto the bed. He waved it off and clambered onto the sheets unassisted.

"It's not your fault. And just America is fine."

"I apologize again. Please forgive her."

"I said it's not your fault, so stop apologizing."

Thin-lipped, Ukraine gave up her pleading and drew up a shoddily crafted chair from the only table in the room. Hands folded in her lap, she kept her eyes lowered in deep reflection, steeling her emotions for her next proposition.

"There is something I want to talk to you about," she said when she finally raised her head again. At this distance even with his fuzzy vision America could see her red-rimmed eyes, the raw blotchiness of her pale cheeks, the redness of her nose. Her distressed state was more serious than he had imagined. Clearly she had been crying for long durations at a time, possibly ever since the moment the two of them had found him in that godforsaken tundra and who knows how long ago that was.

"Go on," he said, unable to hold back his sympathy for her.

"It's…I suppose I mean to say that there is some_one_ I want to talk to you about. I-" the words died in her mouth as her eyes darted to his left. Sensing that the danger had passed, Kumajirou had crawled out from his hiding place and was clawing at the sheets at the foot of the bed. The polar bear appeared to be oblivious to the attention he was receiving, focused pointedly on its clumsy climb.

Stock-still, the Eastern European nation stared wide-eyed at the creature, unable to look away. Already her watery eyes glistened with tears that threatened to fall at any second.

Turning to face him instead in an attempt to forget the sight of the bear for the moment, her stare transfixed to his face made him uncomfortable. It was the sort he'd seen in movies, when a character spotted a ghost or the impossible happening. Then, the intensity of her gaze crumbled, the trembles stronger than before.

She tried several times to start again but warbled off during each attempt until she was forced to hide her face behind her cold fingers to preserve the last of her dignity in front of the other nation.

"I-I'm sorry…I'm just…"

Shoulders convulsing, she tried her best to keep her words in line before they faded into silence.

The sound of her sniffling mixed with the flame's crackling. Kumajirou crawled over and curled in his lap, ink black pupils half-lidded in drowsiness.

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, a half-smile forced itself onto her face.

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better, no more plugged nose for one!" America chirped, eager to change the topic to something positive. "Thanks for coming to find me. I surely would've froze to death out there. Where are we anyways?"

For the first time since he woke up, he gave the humble interior a once over. Unmistakably a log cabin from the structure, it was furnished with only the bare necessities—an all-purpose rectangular table off to the side, three makeshift wooden chairs sanded smooth for comfort, a large hearth with an old fashioned iron cooking pot hanging over the modest fire, an ancient storage chest, duffel bags by the front door, the bed he currently occupied and a bed side table on which a portable electric lamp sat. Without the personal touches or signs of being lived in, it merely felt barren and cold.

"This…, this used to be a ranger's cabin, or it could've been someone's home, we are not too certain. It was abandoned a long time ago however and with your condition being so serious, taking you here seemed a smarter choice than dragging you back to the pick-up point. You had wandered quite far away; this was the nearest place of refuge," she explained dutifully. "When Russia returned without you, we grew worried that something must have happened."

"Is that so? Thanks again."

"No, it was only right of us to do so. I-…" she drew her full bottom lip into her mouth, fretting over how to phrase her next words. "I will go and have a talk with Belarus about her behaviour just now. I really do hope you can forgive her, she can be rather…impulsive about things."

"Even though I think she was overreacting, she only wanted to protect her siblings. I can understand that sentiment at the least," he admitted, grudgingly, arms crossed in front of him decisively. "If my brother was hurt, I wouldn't stop at anything to make him feel better."

Really? Was his resolution that strong? He said to himself he would do anything to see this through, but just how much was he prepared to put on the line? He didn't know. Would he have been prepared to kill another living creature to bring Canada back? Probably not, not without a good reason. But what if that was what it took to bring him back? What if…

Ukraine's eyes brimmed with tears again at his words, she blinked them away when he noticed and shook her head, fair hair curling against her cheeks.

She took a few moments to collect herself.

"I-I'll be going now. Please take your time to rest. I'll radio the helicopter later about our coordinates," she said, rising from her seat, careful not to look at him. "Your glasses are on the side table and there is some borscht in the cooking pot. Help yourself."

With that she disappeared back into the side room, leaving America alone. Sighing, the tension drained out of his stiff shoulders. The warm heavy weight in his lap shifted until they were staring face to face.

"You're just a bundle of problems, aren't you?" He detangled the last of the netting, freeing its snout.

Kumajirou licked his fingers in response, cocking its furry head to the side.

"Is this what you meant by 'the last time we will speak'? You didn't even tell me who _they_ are." He received a sharp reprimanding nip.

A sharp knocking.

Someone was at the front door, or some_thing_. Snatching up his glasses and putting them on, America strained his ears for a second knocking.

There it was again, more urgent than the first.

Already Kumajirou had jumped off his lap and was heading towards the sound. The bear peered over its shoulder at America for a moment and padded over to the sturdy door where his bomber jacket hung on a hook jutting out of the wall, designed perhaps to hang a photo frame.

Rearranging his ruffled clothing, he made his way there as well, the arctic creature waiting quiet and docile as a domestic pet. After his jacket was zipped up tight and he snuck a quick taste of the hearty home cooking boiling in the pot, he collected himself and slipped his shoes on.

"You're not coming with me?"

The bear shook its head and nudged the back of his knees, urging him to go.

The knock came again, unbelievably loud and echoing throughout the small enclosure.

Undoing the various rusting locks, he grasped the old brass knob and pushed it open. A furious gust bearing down on the cabin whipped around him and blew in a small flurry of snowflakes, blinding him. Shading his eyes, he was able to make out General Winter's distinct shape beckoning him.

Steeling his nerves, America straightened his back against the prevailing winds and stepped out into the snow.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: And there we have it! Some development to start things off. I want to highlight the difference between England and Ukraine in this chapter. The former has stronger ties and a long history of relations with Canada so it is easier for him to remember and retain it but he personally doesn't want to whether from subconscious guilt or something else so his resistance keeps him from remembering him. In Ukraine's case, her ties are strong but not as strong. She does want to remember him but she, like in the case of Russia a couple chapters back, can't retain the memory for long. Only America who has both conditions going for him (strong ties and wanting to remember) allows him to maintain his memories of Canada although they are not yet complete. Things will get weird after this.

_Footnotes_:

Inuit Polar Bear Legend — this is a legend about polar bears shedding their skin when in the privacy of their homes revealing their human shape underneath.

Sister Sun and Brother Moon — an Inuit myth explaining how the sun and moon came to be. The story varies depending on the region and tribe but it's generally agreed that the sun is a woman and the moon is a man and are usually siblings.

1938 Commonwealth Games — Held in Sydney, Australia, it's the third Commonwealth Games with the first held in Canada and the second in England. Because of the Second World War, the 1942 games (scheduled to be held in Montréal, Canada) and the 1946 games were abandoned.

**Thank you for reading! If you have any questions or comments, feel free to drop me a review! As always, if you spot any mistakes, let me know. Thanks!**


	7. Chapter 6

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: England uncovers memories of a past he's not ready to confront. Post-conflict with Belarus, General Winter returns.

_A/Ns_: OTL. –prostrates self before you–

**And, special thanks to_ kaossparrow_ for beta-ing the chapter!**

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The world exploded into a pure endless white.

For a time America thought it was just the bountiful snow stirred up around him in yet another blinding flurry. However, as his numb body adjusted to his surroundings he came to realize that this blank emptiness was a different place altogether.

There was no horizon he could see. Up, down, left, right; all directions were an uninterrupted surreal white and eerily reminiscent of the dream several hours previous. Uncertain whether or not it would be wise to call out for somebody, he settled for checking if the ground that he was apparently standing was real. The hard solid surface his fingers encountered brought a spark of relief. It was comforting to know that something normal like a ground existed here.

He took in his surroundings a second time, finding nothing new or remarkable. An uneasy breath escaped him.

If that dream was anything to go by, They lived—no, perhaps existed was a better word—here, that mysterious force wrecking havoc in his and everyone else's lives.

A dull ache in his back from all the sleeping prompted America to do a decent stretch to work the kinks out of his joints. He had to be alert and ready for anything from this point onwards.

Feeling somewhat reassured that having entered this place he'd be all that closer to finding his brother nation, he picked a random direction and broke out into a brisk jog.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

As an athletic type, America was accustomed to physical exercise despite his incorrigible indulgences in junk food and general lazing about. So as his feet fell into a rhythmic pace, his mind began to wander.

He thought of many things. He thought about how he got here, why he came here and, really, who he came here for.

Canada, his neighbour, his brother, his friend. These he was sure of, almost sure of. Rivals at times, maybe, enemies…once or twice. Even now he had trouble remembering the exact shape and size of that land he was certain existed North of his own. Though he could clearly remember the other nation, the whole picture was as of yet incomplete.

It had been gradual. His memories of Canada hadn't returned in one huge crushing tsunami but in gentle beach-combing waves like the serene tides in Blaine, a few now and then. Every time he laid eyes on a particular object in his house, ranging from his most prized possessions to the most mundane trinkets, it would trigger a memory, a thought, a sound, something, something related to him. It was like he was rediscovering his own home, everything taking on a little more meaning.

Still, not everything had returned, of that he was certain. Most of them were recent but a few were from a time so far back America hadn't been aware that he was alive at that point, a time before the arrival of the European colonizers when he did little but frolic across the vast lands and mingle with the locals. The days back then seemed to melt into centuries without any sort of in-between.

Thinking back now, the other personification had looked so small back then, a tiny, often dirty-faced child adorned in the same leather and fur clothing as he was. The fair golden hair he and Canada both possessed had clearly set them apart from their darker coloured people. Meeting him for the first time, America had known in an instant that they were the same, different in ways but the same nonetheless.

Like how their eyes seemed be reflections of the sky; a cerulean blue summer afternoon, a lavender afterglow post-sunset.

Like how Canada chose to cover his pale skin by wearing heavy clothes despite the heat, America himself by the perpetual layer of dirt coating every bare inch of his body; different methods with the same purpose in mind.

Like how they were obviously two separate entities, yet somehow it was indistinguishable where one ended and the other began on this vast continent.

These shared aspects, amongst many others, made it all too easy to get attached to him. They were so similar, so in tune with one another there were times America could've been fooled into thinking that they were one.

Maybe too similar.

Somewhere in those snippets of recovered memories, there were a few of an indignant Canada, upset for one reason or another over their similarities and the misunderstandings that had occurred because of them. The utter rage he displayed at those times—and America meant _utter _rage not just annoyance or anger—was unexpected from one whom he recalled as being normally sweet tempered and complacent.

The more he concentrated on those images, the more America became convinced that behind that angry visage there lied a barely noticeable sadness. That was perhaps one of the first indications of what was to come.

Would that make this his fault?

He couldn't say for sure, but the thought weighed down uncomfortably in his stomach.

A ragged breath shuddered out of him as he felt the beginnings of muscle fatigue taking their effect on him. Exhausted from the brief fever and cold, his stamina was already reaching its limit. However, he pushed his body onwards as nothing new or interesting came into view.

Just how long will this keep going, running on and on purposelessly, he thought.

It was then he noticed that he had heard that thought in a tone and voice not his own. He came to an abrupt stop, realizing he was no longer alone.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Ah, splendid. So you _do_ listen once in a while. I had my doubts watching you continue to exert yourself running in place there."

"…England? What are you doing here?"

True enough, just a couple feet to America's left stood the British nation, arms crossed and looking mildly irritated as per usual. He appeared completely nonchalant about their surroundings.

It couldn't be. He shouldn't be here. He just couldn't.

"I could ask you the same thing," the Briton replied bemused and shook his head lightly from side to side. "Of all people to dream about…"

What?

"Dream? This isn't a dream! This is-" the American stopped short, not knowing where they actually were. As it were, his brain was in a frenzy, trying to register why and how England had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Then his mind caught up with his hearing: "Wait, 'running in place'? I wasn't running in place-, …was I?"

"It certainly looked like it to me," the Brit scoffed, folding his arms to his chest. "And if you hadn't realized something as simple as that, this must be a dream. The real America wouldn't be _that_ brainless."

Normally such a blunt remark would've just bounced off of him, except this time America just couldn't let it slide. He wasn't going stay quiet while someone who knew nothing about what was going called him brainless of all things.

"Look who's calling who brainless, I'm not the one who can't even remember one of his own former colonies!" America retorted, peeved by the insulting compliment. "And that's Canada, by the way. Not that you'd remember."

One of England's heavy-set eyebrows quirked upward at his interjection.

"Canada? Of course I remember him! H-his name just slips my mind now and again," he sputtered, a tad embarrassed at his own failing memory. "Nice lad, appreciates tea on occasion and, er, has an unhealthy sweet tooth for maple syrup."

America did a double-take. His eyebrows knitted incredulously.

"Now I'm sure that _you_'re not England. The England I know doesn't remember Canada at all, let alone acknowledges that he exists."

"I didn't realize lucid dreaming was this irritating," England merely said, turning his attention away. "How do I wake up from this…" He gave his arm a pinch which jerked, reacting to the pain. Finding himself still in the same place, he muttered, "Hmm…"

America watched on, wordless, a crazy possibility pinballing through his mind.

If, just say if, this was the real England, then how did he manage to get in here? He said through dreaming?

Dreaming…, a dream.

A dream?

If England was dreaming then it would, of course, logically follow that this was a dream.

Which would mean, hypothetically speaking, that America too was dreaming right now and that would make all this a dream. Just one long, extremely realistic nightmare, and the England in front of him was from the real world where Canada existed undisturbed by supernatural powers.

Hypothetically speaking.

It sounded so logical it might actually be the truth.

And for one absurd moment, he actually believed it.

"England, tell me, when was the last time you saw me? What did I look like? What did we talk about?" He had to be sure; his chest and voice seized painfully with a breathless hope that he was all too willing to accept and cling to.

The other personification gave him a peculiar look at his odd behaviour.

"Why do you want to know? W-, ugh, why am I even listening? You're just part of a dream–"

America seized the European nation by the shoulders and shook him for all he was worth. He must have appeared hysterical but he didn't care.

"Answer me, England, this is important!"

"A-, at your house. We hadn't heard from you for days so the frog and I came to look in on you," England said, shrinking back wary and rattled, America's grip firm and unrelenting. "If I recall correctly, you were a complete mess, unshaven and living in a pigsty-"

"—what did I say to you? What was I doing?"

"—you were, you were looking for something, I believe," his thick eyebrows crossed in concentration. "A someone, Canada? But why were you looking-, wait, I remember you showing me newspaper articles and satellite images, maps of…, of bridges and you were screaming at me that he…existed? And I said—" England's eyes widened a margin as it all came back to him, one hand coming up to cover his own mouth. "I said…that it was all nonsense…"

Neither of them spoke as the North American nation released him and staggered back a step. America bit down hard on his lip and clenched his fists, unable to keep his disappointment and frustration at bay.

He knew, he _knew_ it had been too good to be true. How he could even believe it for a second escaped him. His chest heaved; it had been getting harder and harder to keep a level mind recently.

"So you remember him now, do you?" America found himself saying, a dash of bitterness colouring his tone. "What brought that on?"

"I…don't seem to remember," England said after a long pause, a distant contemplative look still clouding his green eyes. "What I do remember is _not_ remembering, if that makes any sense at all," finally he raised his eyes and met America's hard blue gaze. "Just what is going on here, America?"

"I don't know," and that was the truth. "But we're going to find out." The words seemed to grind out of him, resisting the whole way.

Despite his feelings on the matter, this development held some promise and he planned to take advantage of it the best that he could. After all, amongst all the people he knew, England had be one of the most well-versed in topics beyond the natural (even if he chose to call it magic).

A few mental breathing exercises later, America gave England a quick rundown of the situation from as far back as his visit to the Peace Arch and then some. The Briton took a minute to digest all this information before he spoke again.

"I see…your behaviour back then is far more understandable now…"

_Good, now let's get going and do something about the situation at hand_.

Or that was what he intended to say.

"So you admit that I'm right and you're wrong? That I'm not crazy in the head?" Disappointment at how nonchalantly England was taking this grated against his nerve.

Somehow the tension from earlier hadn't left him and, in fact, seemed to grow worse like unravelling a tangle only to turn it into a tight unyielding knot.

"Is this really the time and place-"

"Just admit it!"

It was odd. He already knew that he was right and that England had been wrong.

Yet a small part of him, the part of him that was sick of how everything had turned out, the part of him that wanted to throw a childish fit and let someone else deal with the problem, the part that wanted to squeeze even a drop of satisfaction and smug triumph out of the situation, took over.

"Really, America, this is-"

"_Answer_ _me_."

It was so unfair, the superpower couldn't help but feel, that others could do what he fought to achieve with a fraction of the effort. It shouldn't be this way, he was the one who spent weeks trying to find a way to get to Canada, he was the one who tracked General Winter through that raging snowstorm, he was the one who jumped into this unknown dimension with nothing but his hopes to support him, he was the first one to care-

England gritted his teeth, disgust at his former colony's behaviour displayed without restraint.

"Very well, I admit it. _You_ were right and _I_ was wrong," both arms were thrown up in agitated defeat. "Does that make you feel any better? Is being right more important to you than finding a way to get Canada back?"

America's mouth opened to make a retort but nothing came out.

No, it hadn't made him feel any better. If anything it made him feel worse.

Canada. He came here to save him. What the hell was he doing? Why…?

He tried to redirect his thoughts back to saving his brother, forcing down the sickening anger boiling in his gut.

A sharp patronizing jab made contact with his shoulder. The strength in his body seemed to wilt, pierced by barely a touch.

He staggered backwards in physical attempt to retreat from the darkness inside him.

As abruptly as it had started the malicious feelings had receded leaving behind a cold empty shell. Feeling his energy drain away, America slid to the ground breathing hard.

What just happened…?

Those ugly selfish words that crossed his mind only seconds ago and had sounded so correct and justified now felt foreign as though they had been a stranger's mentality and not his own. His head ached, ears ringing.

A hand fell on his tense shoulder, drawing his attention up to meet England's concerned expression which the Brit was failing horribly to conceal.

"Pull yourself together, America! What's the matter?"

He felt so tired, so drained, so empty. A bottomless pit blossomed into existence inside his chest right in the place where it always seemed to hurt these days. Something about it resonated with him, caused his heart to throb and pound louder, faster, harder.

Pain.

Anger.

Sorrow.

Loneliness.

"America!"

A fierce burning sting jolted him back to reality just as an unnatural chill crawled across his skin everywhere else. He was jerked up onto his feet, leaning heavily against England's shorter figure as he was lacking the energy to stand by himself.

"Did, did you just hit me?" America mumbled, winded.

"Works like a charm every time. I almost thought you were a lost cause there for a moment." Both of them were out of breath for different reasons.

"Wha-, what happened?"

"You tell me," England grumbled, growing tired of supporting America's weight but unwilling to let him sit down. "One minute you were telling me about the last couple weeks and the next you were being outright unreasonable. And then, following that, you dropped onto your knees in trembles and started _sinking_ into the bloody ground, if it could even be called that."

"I-, wha-, what?"

England inspected the whiteness beneath their feet and in particular the patch under America's shoes. When he deemed it safe and solid, he lowered the other nation down vigilant all the while.

"When was the last time you took a break?"

"Uh…" was all he could say, surprised by the question.

"How about sleeping? Eating something other than fast food?"

To his surprise, America couldn't remember, he couldn't even remember spending time to eat as it had taken on such a trivial presence in his life, he did it almost automatically. Still he tried to grasp a rough date to answer with.

"…uh…maybe-"

"Just shut up and close your eyes, rest for a moment. You clearly need it."

And for once in perhaps two centuries, he obeyed, finding no reason to fight him. An ache developed at the bridge of his nose, just between his eyes. He pinched it to relieve the pain.

"Do you have any idea about what happened just now? You said I was sinking into the ground…"

"Would you shut up for more than three seconds? And no, I don't know but yes, I can make a few guesses as to what's going on. Listen up because I'm not in the mood to repeat myself," there was some shuffling as England shifted into a more comfortable sitting position, his breathing now calm and even. "It's been bothering me for a while now but there's something odd about this spatial plane we're in, I say spatial plane since we've established that this is most likely not a dream. The space is imbued, I'm not entirely sure with what but the best I can describe it as is some sort of infinite loop. I really have no bloody clue what it means but it doesn't seem threatening at the moment. However, more importantly, there's a…vacuum in here, not the type you're familiar with, but a spiritual vacuum."

England closed his eyes, completely still and then added,

"Close your eyes for a moment, relax. Can you feel it?"

Closing his eyes too, America tried to relax his body. At first there was nothing but eerie silence like before, then there was something. A kind of tug that wasn't exactly physical, so faint it felt more like something stuck to his clothes that he could feel the weight of but served as merely a minor distraction.

And there was a second feeling, one that nation people were very familiar with, an aura of weariness, of immeasurable age.

When their eyes opened again, they shared a knowing glance about this ancient feeling in the air but made no comment on it. England ploughed on.

"As for your little fit, if I were to make an educated guess, I'm going to say that all this stress had finally taken its toll and left you completely vulnerable to its suction. Of all things that tend to go first, it's reason and sensibility, always the good values first. Or simply that you're pushing yourself too bloody far and your body couldn't withstand it." He paused here to organize his thoughts. "The sinking however I haven't the slightest clue…how were you feeling when it was happening, anything peculiar? It started shortly after you collapsed."

"Empty," America replied, throat dry as he remembered the experience vividly. "Cold, and so…alone."

Sky blue eyes cast downwards, he caught sight of his own hands and saw them shaking. He clenched them tightly until the knuckles turned white.

Get a grip already, come on.

"America, listen to me. It's not that I care about what you do to yourself," England started, his tone growing uncomfortable and tight. "You are your own person, you are entitled to do whatever the bloody hell you want to yourself. However, I honestly don't believe that letting yourself get so rundown is going to help Canada in the long run. In fact, I would argue that it would be a hindrance to your goal. So…take a little time for yourself right now, if not for yourself, at least do it for the sake of your mission."

Somewhat embarrassed, England turned away, accepting the lack of a reply as some sort of agreement. America continued to stare at him for a while before looking away as well, wiping the cold sweat off his hands on his slacks.

Time passed as the atmosphere stretched unbearably thin between them.

"Can you feel him?" the words were blurted suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Canada," England said as though stating the obvious, his stiffly held shoulders relaxing a little when seeing the energy returning to the other nation's posture. "From what you've told me, you seemed to be somewhat connected to him."

"Connected, huh?"

He nodded.

"There is also something I'd like to confirm, the part with the bear in your house, just before Germany arrived. Would you tell me it again in more detail?"

Oblivious to the reason, America merely did as he was asked, relaying it with as much detail as he could recollect.

"Lonely…" England reiterated under his breath, mulling over the specifics of the conversation. "I have a theory, will you hear me out?"

"Go on."

"I think that what you experienced earlier wasn't just some random occurrence, I don't mean the bit with your off-character raving. That I think is separate from what came after. What you were feeling when you were sinking into the ground wasn't your emotions nor these _They_ as you call them. Rather, I believe that at that very moment you were, how you say it, synchronized to Canada."

"What? What do you mean?" His posture straightened to attention.

"Think about it, America, what you felt, does it not match the bear's description of what Canada was feeling when he disappeared? When I was at your house, you said you felt his absence inside yourself. Do you understand the implications if this were to be true?"

When put that way, it did sound quite logical. America considered this more closely. The pain and emptiness had replaced his own emotions so thoroughly that had his senses not returned, he could've been inclined to take them as his own. If those had truly been Canada's feelings he had experienced, there had to be a Canada to feel them from.

Which meant that—

"–Canada exists here somewhere," America breathed, the tension rising in his chest. Finally, an inkling to the beginning of a solution, he could barely contain his excitement.

"Not just somewhere," England said, the corner of his mouth curved up into the slightest of a grin at his reaction. "In here."

His finger tapped the white surface they were sitting on.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Are you ready _yet_?"

Behind him, England continued to search his pockets. America tapped his shoe impatiently as the European nation withdrew a cocktail toothpick and, frowning, returned it to where he found it.

"Hold your horses, will you? Aha." He brandished a short retractable ballpoint pen, the kind you pick up for free from information booths and never really seem to use. "This will do splendidly."

"Will you hurry up already? I can feel myself getting old over here."

Ignoring him, England ran his deft fingers over the writing utensil, digging into the cheap plastic with his nails now and then, hard enough to make a mark. Unintelligible murmuring could be heard as he worked the material.

Rolling his eyes at the weirdness, America peered down at the ground and then looked away sharply. As much as he anticipated what came next, England had been very adamant about him not focusing on the ground for too long before they were sufficiently prepared.

An excited jitter coursed through his body, itching to spring into action.

He tried not to think about it—it might accidentally trigger the sinking—he tried not to think about meeting his brother, not to think about rescuing him, not to think about bringing him home to where he belonged-

"Alright, I'm ready."

America snapped out of his revelry as the pen was pushed into his hand.

"What's this for?"

"As you know, we're acting completely on conjecture at this point. Anything could be in there, even the possibility that it's a trap constructed by Them. Personally, I have my doubts but this is the best we've got and even if we are right, it's unlikely to be smooth sailing from here on end. Therefore, in the event of an emergency, activate this."

"Wait, what does it do?" It looked like an ordinary pen with scratches on it, and the marks didn't even look anything close to magic symbols or pentagrams.

"Nothing you need to be concerned about. Just know that it will buy you some time should the situation necessitate it. While I'm here, of course, there will be no need to use it. That said, I must stress that it's to be used only as a last resort, understand? It activates with a click so store it somewhere safe but readily accessible. Now, let's get started, shall we?"

Slipping it into his bomber jacket's pocket, America got into position and knelt on the white surface. Maybe the pen could shoot laser beams or turn into a light sabre. A few more possibilities crossed his mind before he put the issue aside, no way would it do something as cool as that.

"So I just have to think about, uh, Canada?" he asked uncertain, pressing both hands flat against the ground. Having removed his gloves, it felt smooth and warm.

"Try to establish a connection."

Before he could ask what that even meant, his attention became transfixed to the pure white which now throbbed under his fingers. A sluggish distant thudding filled his ears as the ground pulsed along with it, alive.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, America was aware of England's hand squeezing his shoulder tightly but soon even that uncomfortable grip faded into the background.

The white pulsing matter softened with each thick heavy pulse and he pressed his hands deeper into it, feeling it start to give way.

The emptiness, the abyss, started to flow back into his body but he ignored it, concentrating on the warm pulse.

His arms sank gradually into ground up to the wrists then up to the elbows. Then his fingers broke through into a space that had the consistency of viscous liquid.

His own heartbeat slowed, almost perfectly matching the dull rhythm of the pulse that engulfed his arms. The white layer between continued to liquefy, swallowing his knees.

This was it.

He was afraid, he admitted it to himself, but he was prepared to confront it. Too much was riding on this and as his heart and mind took up their prayers again, he inhaled deeply and plunged in.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The surroundings swirled, swirled and swirled, finally reforming into a static image abruptly. Swaying slightly on his feet, the superpower's arm reached out to brace his body against a nearby tree. The sudden change had made America feel a little queasy.

A rich, green forest surrounded him. Warm sunlight peeked through the tight-knit canopy of leaves. From all directions came the sounds of lively nature, the cries of the newly born, the whisper of youthful wind; it was undoubtedly spring.

England was nowhere in sight.

What luck he was having these days, America thought. Calling out for England seemed a great idea but he quickly discarded the notion. Who knows what would hear him. Or who.

Without many reasonable alternatives, America sidestepped a thick mature tree root and began his search.

Ferns swiped at his legs as he pushed onwards, searching aimlessly. With all the natural disturbances in these parts, it didn't pay to keep his senses alert as he would find himself reacting to a squirrel darting across a tree branch or the sudden shrill exchange between tiny birds.

He continued to walk, ducking under low branches, sidestepping rocks embedded in the earth.

It was unlikely that he'd find England very soon in these woods unless they happened to be in close vicinity, he thought to himself. He could barely see more than fifteen feet away and he was wasting precious time.

Just as he was about to give calling out a try or at least reconsider the option, a disturbance in the form of a small brown object dropped from above. It hit the hard dirt ground and rolled twice until it came to a stop against the base of a tree.

It was a shoe.

He looked up.

A pair of familiar violet eyes looked back.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

John Moore hummed to himself as he handled the steering wheel gently, guiding his age-old vessel through the watery depths. For his entire life, he had lived it on the sea and if he had anything to say about it, he'd probably die there as well. Today, however, was probably a bit too early for such a thing even by his standards.

The fog outside curled at the edges of the boat's deck, a near solid cloud of white floating beyond that. He kept a careful practiced eye on the sonar.

He had been foolish. Everyone knew that most of the Arctic Ocean was unexplored territory and was, climate-wise, a disaster to navigate into, much less through. Meteorologists hadn't been able to explain away the seemingly perpetual fog that existed there and it didn't seem like many of them have been willing to try up until recently.

On a whim John had decided to venture into these unknown and untouched waters on their way home in hopes of a bountiful catch to make up for a rather disappointing outing. There weren't a whole lot of fish in these parts anymore and almost everyone would jump at a chance of securing a competitive advantage. At first he thought it was odd that no one had thought of scouring the Arctic Ocean for more prey, but now he understood why.

The fog was impenetrable even by the heavy duty fog lights installed on his vessel. The lives of him and his small crew were in Lady Luck's hands now. So far it was smooth sailing, quite literally. All for the better; he could barely imagine the consequences of running aground in this weather.

In fact, it almost felt wrong to be sailing in these waters. The air was wrong, the stars were absent, the water unmoving. Something metaphysical urged him to remove himself from these parts, weighing on his body like a faint illness.

He was probably tired, over-thinking it.

Maybe he'd discover some uninhabited island. He could claim it and make it a vacation home then come once a year with his wife for a brief respite from civilization.

As if that would ever happen, the foolishness of the thought tugged at his lips as he continued to hum away the loneliness. He must be getting more senile than he thought.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The tiny figure curled up tighter, attempting unsuccessfully to shrink out of sight on the branch he was perched on. Hands petrified stiff gripped the trunk desperately like a lifeline, the starched white linen of his simple shirt pressed flat to the bark. Yet despite the fear and panic in the young boy's wide eyes, his owlish gaze remained transfixed on America's sudden appearance as though he was some savage territorial forest beast. After a whispery gasp and frantic scrambling, the boy became still as a statue, breath caught in his throat.

America, in a similar breathless, speechless condition, stared upwards as a barrage of emotions blended together into a confusing sludge in his mind. There was excitement, there was triumph and there was confusion.

He finally found him.

He finally found Canada.

But why was he so young?

Their stare-off continued, waiting for one side to make the first move. Licking his dry lips, the superpower cleared his throat once, a rough sound that seemed to frighten the young Canada even more so. A prick of guilt made him hesitate, afraid that the young wraith of a boy would be blown away on a breeze if he so much as spoke in his general direction.

"W-who are you?" warbled the quiet youthful voice, beating him to the chase. French pronunciations still lingered in his speech.

America frowned heavily, panic brewing in his stomach. It didn't seem like Canada recognized him. What should he do? Call out to him regardless? But he didn't want to frighten him anymore than he was. He wanted to savour the moment for as long as he could, himself fearing that their brief, if one-sided, reunion would be cut short.

"Don't…, don't you recognize me?" he asked, a little hopeful. The colonial nation examined his facial features again, slowly and carefully, however, he neither nodded nor shook his head.

Snap went a twig somewhere else in the lively woods. Young Canada, startled by the noise, nearly jumped clear out of the tree. He pawed at the oak tree's base to steady himself.

"Hey, you should come down before you hurt yourself," America advised, genuinely concerned for his brother nation's safety. The instant he saw the little nation teetering on the branch, he was more than ready to catch him should he fall, heart thudding at the mere thought of failing to do so. They may be nations but Canada had always been a bit fragile as a colony and far less tough than America was even in the present. He certainly looked as such currently.

"Come on down or you'll fall."

"…I don't know how to get down," was his quiet reply. The corners of his deep lavender eyes glistened in the afternoon glow of spring.

"Jump then, I'll catch you." America held out his arms like a safety net, a friendly smile on his face to coax the little nation to comply. He was met with a suspicious glance.

"…'m not s'posed to listen to strangers…" the youth mumbled, remaining planted in place.

"Well then, uh, if we introduced ourselves to each other, then we wouldn't be strangers, right?"

"Mr., um, Kirkland said that's a trick. A trick to fool boys like me."

"Kirkland? You mean Arthur, right?" The switch to their human aliases took America a few seconds to adjust to. They rarely ever used them anymore, even in private. Most nations encountered each other more and more frequently in official settings where it was commonplace and respectful to address other nation people as the country they represent. The practice of using human names amongst fellow nations only remained nowadays in informal outings together to avoid arousing suspicion. As such, there was simply no leisure time in recent years for such outings to take place. The North American nation always harboured an uncomfortable feeling for them, knowing that older nations such as those in Europe had changed theirs over time to adapt to transition in language and era.

"…do you know Mr. Kirkland…?"

"Yeah, you could say that," which was technically true. "See? We're not strangers after all. I'm Alfred by the way." The name slipped out before he thought better. Oh well.

"…'m Matthew…"

"Nice to meet you, Matthew! Now come on out of that tree, I'll catch you."

"…promise?"

"Promise."

Young Canada eyed him suspiciously, searching his expression for deceit before conceding to his request. Thin legs swung through the air, his left foot bearing only a sock, as he turned awkwardly on the branch to ready himself for the jump.

He raised his wide youthful eyes to America's encouraging blue gaze once more, hands still plastered to his perch. His small mouth opened but closed shortly after without saying a word.

"Go on, jump."

And he did.

And America caught him, just like he promised.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The detour had proven to be fruitless. John Moore hadn't even dared to wake his crew to attempt a casting. A vision of their cranky complaining forms floated into mind, berating him for his foolish decision while they were uninhibited enough from sleep to question his authority. This little adventure would be his secret alone.

At long last, the heavy fog parted and gave way to the majestic open expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

Grasping the underside of the steering wheel, he eased the sea vessel to starboard. The ship groaned metallic in protest over the puttering grumble of the motor. He'd have to give it a good servicing before their next outing.

Now that they were in the clear, he could behold it in all its monstrous glory, an enormous dense white cloud set against the deep indigo night sky. Oddly enough it was only recently that he started feeling unsettled by its presence.

Navigating by the radar display and built-in analog compass, the sea-weary vessel was turned homeward towards Maine. They were already running behind schedule; however, now that their whereabouts were clearer, it didn't hurt taking a little shortcut. John hummed to himself quite spirited and turned his boat towards the impenetrable fog once more, aligning it to a route cutting through the outer fringe of the fog cloud that should sail directly to the harbour. Hopefully it would be smooth sailing home as well.

Just to be safe, he turned on the brand new GPS system with a soft click. As his ship sliced through the calm waters, the complicated device was prodded and poked for the correct settings.

All was silent.

Then there came the collision.

Pushing himself away from the steering wheel, John's bruised chest heaved for air, trying to get his bearings on the situation. All around him the metal piping and bolted steel frame screeched like a wounded animal before dying away. The GPS, knocked clear out of its bracket, clattered to the floor, falling somewhere into the deep shadows of the cabin.

After he regained his breath, the seaman peered out the windows in wonder of what his ship had run into. A solid mass of fog greeted him as expected.

He glanced at the radar for an explanation, knowing very well that up to a moment ago the surrounding perimeters were completely clear of obstacles. After all, he had just come from there and there was no doubting that he was still a great distance away from the continent.

He scrubbed at his eyes and took another look at the simple display.

That's impossible.

The heavy water-tight door swung open with a creak as John Moore stepped out onto the deck, the retrieved GPS grasped tightly in his wrinkled hand. The fog thinned now, revealing the light-gray stone boardwalk his vessel was buried in.

Checking the GPS screen again, he reconfirmed that his current location was over 250 miles from his home state. Unlike the radar, however, the GPS only showed a simple textured blue to represent an unbroken stretch of ocean. The radar had been a completely different story.

He followed the mystery stonework with his eyes as far as into the distance as the current visibility conditions would allow.

He scrubbed his eyes a second time. A shape behind the thinning mist emerged into existence like a misplaced mirage.

It was a building.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A/Ns: I can give all the excuses I want but this update was long overdue regardless, so let's carry on, shall we?

First of all, as you can tell, things are about to pick up! I had major problems with this chapter that caught me by surprise. This will most likely happen again (given how the last few chapters have been) so there will probably be delays for updates in the future. (As if it doesn't already happen normally…)

The ending's significance is probably still ambiguous (there are some hints to what John actually hit though) but it will be clear in the next chapter. Hopefully you will stick around until then.

Once again, thank you all for your alerts, favourites and reviews! I wasn't able to reply to some of them as PMing back was blocked for a few people. Nevertheless, I enjoyed reading them and hearing your thoughts about the story. They are always a source of motivation for me in writing, so thank you again.

**As always, thank you for reading. Questions and comments are welcome, just drop me a review! Mistakes that you've found are also welcome. Thanks again!**


	8. Chapter 7

Title: Children of a Common Mother

Authoress: Ankaris123

Re-cap: After England finds a lead, America encounters what seems to be a young Canada. Meanwhile, an American sailor runs aground in a mysterious port city.

_A/Ns_: Finally, an update! Man, these sure take time to write. For reason, the chapters I am most excited and eager to write take the longest to complete.

**Special thanks** to **kaosparrow** for beta'ing again! I need to stop proofreading in the middle of the night, I make really odd edits when I do.

Anyways without further ado, read on.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Cutting through the tall wild grass, America ploughed on through the unfamiliar foliage in search of a way to civilization. He paused for a moment to readjust Canada's position on his back. Thin legs were all he could see of his brother nation at the moment, a plain white linen handkerchief bandaged around the swollen left knee.

The little hands holding onto his shoulders clenched briefly as he heard, for the umpteenth time, young Canada's whispery apology.

"Don't sweat it, you're light as a feather," the superpower would always say in reply and the warm body clinging to him from behind would relax a little and press closer, comforted. A light fluffy warmth bubbled in his chest; it was a little surreal though, piggybacking a younger form of his brother around in the wilderness like this.

For the duration of their aimless hike through the woods, few words were exchanged. America's attempts at coaxing a little more response out of his young charge were fruitless. Apart from one-word answers, Canada was tight-lipped, preferring whenever possible to answer with a shake or nod of the head into the shoulder of America's bomber jacket. No doubt this protectiveness was taught to him by their British caretaker. Canada had always been steadfast and obedient to the Brit's teachings for as long as he could remember.

The afternoon sun was beginning its descent, the temperature steadily dropping with it. They had to find Canada's cottage home soon or else they'd need to seek temporary shelter for the night. America felt uneasy about both options, the former for who might be waiting there and the latter for the danger it posed. There was still the issue of getting out of wherever this was and returning to the real world or, if his intuition was correct, the right timeline; whichever was more accurate.

"…I know an Alfred," the soft voice said suddenly next to his ear. "…he's…my brother."

"Is that so?" America chirped merrily, eager for conversation from his little passenger.

"You look…a bit like him."

"Must be a handsome little guy, then."

America waited for more—small talk, anything—but Canada was silent once more; the youth's face buried in the black wool of his jacket's collar. They carried on for a while until either spoke up.

"We were—Al and I were, that is—we were playing hide and seek..." whispered the young nation as though sharing a secret. "Al was 'it' and I was hiding. I'm…I'm very good at hiding."

That explained why he was out so far in the woods. No one could hide like his neighbour could, a statement which was as much praise as it was remark of concern.

"I'm sure you are," America said, minding his footing as they negotiated a particularly slippery tangle of tree roots. "I barely saw you just now, up in that tree."

He felt the grip of the small hands on his shoulders clench again, a habit that he was beginning to identify as young Canada's expression of hesitation and perhaps a hint of guilt. However, America didn't say a word. He knew from experience that the British colony was like Chinese finger traps; the more he tried to pry the words out of him, the tighter the other kept his mouth shut.

"…Al always gets mad when I hide close by, even though…even though he doesn't find me. Most of the time," he added hastily. "When I go farther away to hide, Al never finds me. But…"

"But?"

The grip on his shoulders grew tighter and tighter.

"…can you, …can you keep a secret, mister?"

"You can count on it!"

A long pause and then,

"…sometimes I think…I think that, maybe," the thin airy voice quavered, lowering to a whisper, "that maybe Al doesn't look for me."

The words ran through America like a lance of ice. He forced himself to slow down after the sole of his loafer skidded across the surface of a moss-covered boulder. Canada, meanwhile, stammered on.

"B-because, I mean, maybe that's why he never finds me. Because he i-isn't looking for me…m-maybe he didn't want to find me all along…"

America felt Canada's petit form curl up against his back as much in self-preservation as in self-blame.

He also recognized this reaction of his northern neighbour.

It radiated shame. It broadcasted hurt.

"—may-…maybe…he doesn't want me around…"

America's mind took a while to register those last few words. His mouth opened, then closed, speechless.

Was this what Canada thought of him? That he didn't care?

From his memories of childhood, America recalled nothing that could shed light on this situation. As sibling countries and fellow colonies, they had gotten along quite amicably. Rather, the sharp contrast in their personalities balanced out the negative aspects in each other. It was certainly true that in their earlier days as dominions under the Empire, the British North American colonies were not close. Having been ushered into official nationhood by their respective colonizers, the two of them had been separated for a long time and there were few chances to see each other, especially when England and France were at odds with each other overseas. What had been forgotten from the more innocuous times prior to the European landings had been steadily regained and strengthened in the few years they spent together before the advent of America's fight for independence.

But for their relationship to have been this bad? America just couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"…I-I try not to get in the way, I really do, I know I can't do things as well as Al a-and I'm slow…and I guess I took up a lot of Mr. Eng-…I-I mean, Mr. Kirkland's time when we first started living together…b-but…Al shouldn't be angry with me about that anymore…'cause," the back collar of America's dress shirt grew warm and damp, young Canada's fair hair tickling the nape of his neck, "…Mr. Kirkland…Mr. Kirkland doesn't want me either…"

Without warning, America dropped to a crouch and slid the crying boy off his back. He stood to turn around, kneeling so they were face-to-face. What he saw nearly broke his heart.

Already possessing a small stature, Canada appeared even tinier with his shoulders drawn together and back hunched, creasing his white linen shirt harshly. The back of his hands were wet with tears as the little boy rubbed at his face vigorously. Fat drops of hot tears dripping from the youth's chin fell steadily onto his pale knobbly knees and the makeshift handkerchief bandage had slipped down to hang loosely around the young nation's ankle, exposing the scabbing scrape.

Seeing the miserable sight before him, the initial outrage he felt at young Canada's false accusations melted away. He reached out and tenderly pried the trembling hands apart. Thick tears continued to stream down Canada's plump blotchy cheeks, his red-rimmed eyes squeezed shut.

"Ca-…Matt."

"...I-I'm sorry! …I'm sorry…please d-don't tell them I said that…" hiccups mixed with his words as he choked them out. "I-I didn't…I didn't mean any of that, I just-"

"Matt."

"—'m sorry-"

"Matt, listen to me," America said firmly, brushing the small nation's hair out of his face. He struggled to find convincing, soothing words to help ease his brother's condition without giving too much away. "They _need_ you. Alfred and Mr. Kirkland, both of them need you."

"…they don't need me-"

"Of course they do!" His outburst temporarily derailed Canada's rambling. He continued more tenderly, "You're…you're family, right?"

This was all wrong. Canada hadn't showed any signs of being isolated and unwanted in his recollections. As a colony, America had indeed resented his newly acquired sibling for a time, but as England's visit grew more and more infrequent and he himself had grown more independent, these selfish feelings faded away with his youth. If it hadn't been for Canada's presence in his life, he may have never stopped being entirely dependent on the Brit who had been his sole family member and friend up until then. And even though the North American brothers had lost contact for a period of time after the war of Independence, if it hadn't been for Canada, England would have taken longer to recover emotionally, if at all, from the aftermaths of that battle. They may have seemed insignificant, but the little things added up.

America felt fatigue settle in his shoulders where the anger had drained away. Traces of these negative feelings lingered as he was still offended and hurt that Canada thought so little of himself and of them, that the young colony was so guilt-ridden for being honest about his feelings, and, most of all, that his younger self hadn't paid close enough attention to notice this.

"There's no way they wouldn't need you," America said. "You're a part of them. No one can replace you."

It didn't seem like Canada believed his words, which was understandable since he was technically a stranger, but he seemed to have calmed down a little as the tears seemed to lessen as well.

The superpower carefully wiped away the salty wetness on his younger brother's cheeks. He regretted not having a napkin or a packet of tissues with him as the teardrops continued to roll and his hands, though large in comparison to Canada's round babyish face, were already slick with warm moisture. He wanted to brush the tears away and rid him of this anguish and pain, but like his wet, calloused fingers, his efforts only caused the little nation to wince as they swept over his tender red skin.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

In a daze, America found himself at the edge of a clearing some time later. In it there stood a large one-storey cottage home, cute and quaint as a postcard image. Young Canada, tuckered out from his little episode earlier, was sprawled across his back, asleep from exhaustion.

He approached the building, numb to the sensation of walking, deaf to sounds. The bright moon illuminated his path and strange details about his old home. Next to the kitchen's side door was a closed window; a muddy leather ball squashed the petunias in the garden box affixed just under it. On the thatched roof was a wooden hoop America had once cherished, abandoned. Unravelling one of his arms that had been curved behind his back to support the slumbering boy, he grasped the handle on the heavy wooden door and pushed. It swung open easily.

Shuffling through the kitchen, America navigated through the familiar household. The scent in the air of charcoal and oven-burnt bread wafted around him in a way that suggested, as it always had in his childhood, comfort and innocence. It was odd as no one appeared to be home at the moment considering how late it was. Just where his younger counterpart was, America hadn't the foggiest. He wondered bitterly if his young self had really forgotten about Canada or had given up the search. Considering how long ago this was, he couldn't very well rely on his memory.

Eventually he reached the last room at the end of the main hallway. The door was ajar, revealing a relatively plain space inside that had once been used for storage. It was Canada's old room.

A heavy travelling trunk sat at the foot of the single bed with several old but well-loved dolls and stuffed animals perched on the lid. Toys and schoolwork cluttered the top of a mahogany study desk that took up a large section of the room. A neat stack of paper and exercise booklets laid on the polished wood surface, the top sheet displaying the young nation's efforts in penmanship and English literature. In the corner wedged between the desk and the wall was a roll of forgotten wallpaper. Stacks of storage boxes and other such objects had been shoved into another corner, a white sheet draped over all of it in a feeble attempt to hide their bulk from view.

Sidestepping the hand-woven rug, America walked up to the child-sized bed and tucked the sleeping Canada in. The little boy shifted and whimpered in his sleep, a fistful of America's dress shirt grasped tightly in his small hand. Prying his fingers off with care, the superpower straightened up and observed the dozing figure with a troubled expression.

Tiny little Canada looked so peaceful and without worries asleep in his bed, yet was utterly out of place surrounded by furnishings obviously designed for adults. The patchwork quilt pulled up to his chin was so thick, so heavy, that the rise and fall of the little boy's chest accompanying each shallow breath were rendered indistinguishable. It seemed to confine him, suppressing him.

Everything was wrong, so wrong.

Yet it didn't actually matter. America couldn't bring the young boy Canada was currently with him but at the very least he had fulfilled his promise. He brought Canada home.

_Home_.

He almost laughed.

Slowly but surely America managed to pull away, to turn his back on his brother for whom he had searched so fervently, and strode out into the hallway. The house felt muggy instead of warm and inviting as he had remembered it; the dense atmosphere clung with a deceptive allure to his form as he rushed blindly out the open kitchen door. He had to get away; he had to get out of there.

Cool evening air prickled his skin as America plodded down the hard dirt path leading back to the expanse of the forest. His shoulders felt heavier without the reassuring weight of the little nation clinging to them. Although the hole inside him had been filled the moment he had arrived here and Canada had come back into his life, America was fully aware, now more than ever, of the inadequate stitching of the seams that held the missing piece in place.

Ahead of him, shrouded under the boughs of evergreens, England looked out at him with an age-weary expression and stepped back to let him into the shadows.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Silver moonshine set the clearing softly aglow, further strengthening the cottage home's fairytale-like image. America knew better though, and despite this knowledge he couldn't tear his eyes away—as though it was a problem he could solve if only he spent enough time on it. He also couldn't bear to look England in the face, not right then.

A hesitant hand touched his shoulder briefly in a gesture of pity, or perhaps sympathy. The implications, however, were clear enough.

"How much did you hear?" America said curtly.

"…not much, it's not exactly polite to eavesdrop," came England's reply. It seemed he picked up that this wasn't what the superpower had wanted to hear as he then added, "…I heard enough."

Nightlife stirred around them, bushes rustled, wings fluttered. The two nation personifications, however, were silent and motionless, both staring out into the clearing and at the quaint dwelling that stood in it.

All America felt was regret and a touch of guilt.

"There was so much that I wanted to say," America said after a while. So much to say, about how much he missed his northern brother, about how much he was needed, about how much pain and hardship the superpower had been through looking for him, "but…he wouldn't have understood."

"No, he wouldn't."

Behind him, he heard the Brit shuffle his feet in the damp grass.

"Where are we? Did we go back in time or something?" America asked. A third unspoken question rang in the air: _If so,_ _what can we do now?_

"We're inside the core of the spatial plane. Sorry to disprove your time-travelling theory, however, I can confidently say we did not experience any shift in time frame, a key factor is the lack of physical displacement-, er, well, just trust me on this one."

"Yeah. Sure." Obviously, England heard the lack of humour in his tone because he carried on with his explanation in a more sombre fashion.

"From my observations, I would say this is a recreation of Canada's memories. True memories cannot be altered and thus cannot be interacted with. The surroundings are adapting and changing to accommodate what Canada remembers. And judging from…your exchange with him, while these recollections are being recreated his memories of his 'future' are erased, or at the very least repressed."

"Why?" Desperately, America fought to transform the dreadful feeling in the pit of stomach into strength to drive him onward past this unexpected experience. It was getting harder and harder to do so, what with all the dead ends and disappointments he'd experienced thus far. He turned around to take in the Brit's explanation with his full attention. He must succeed; he couldn't give up after coming so far.

"Other than it being a condition for an optimal memory recreation, I have a theory which can be easily tested if we could secure a method to quicken the process or to skip ahead in the recreation, I suspect that They've placed Canada in a loop-"

_Creeeak, _click.

The two of them froze stock-still as the sound reached their ears.

America scoured their surroundings with a nervous eye for the source. He recognized the noise, and it seemed England did too, so if they were not mistaken—

A footstep, then the faint outline of a man materialized behind England.

"Don't move," dictated the man, the pitch of his voice low but immediately identifiable. Another step forward and the stranger was visible under the moonlight.

America watched the surreal scene unfold before him as a gruff England in eighteenth-century garb raised a full-cocked flintlock musket and pointed the muzzle at the back of his twenty-first century counterpart. The man's narrowed eyes kept a close watch over America's movements.

"You sirs are trespassing. What business do you have here?" His tone indicated that he had already had a good idea of what two strangers whispering in the dark outside an apparently empty house intended to do.

"…none. We were lost and came upon this cottage," America said carefully, crafting his excuse with ease. The years of exposure to Improv seemed to be paying off. "There wasn't anyone home so we decided to wait for the owner to return."

"I see…"

The musket's aim remained steady.

"You," the man butted the back of England's head with the tip of the musket barrel, "turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Raising both hands to demonstrate his innocence, England flashed America a panicked glance as he revolved gradually on the spot. Allowing the two of them see each other face to face was clearly a bad idea.

Without another thought, America lunged to the left, drawing the other England's attention and fire.

_This was going to hurt like a bitch_, America thought.

Just then a small distraction burst through the thick undergrowth.

Dirt-smeared and covered in scratches, young colonial America stumbled into the crossfire. In the nick of time, the North America nation managed to throw himself to the side, avoiding a collision with the little boy.

"Ca—…wha…who're you…?" child America choked out in surprise, his pre-pubescent voice a touch hoarse, wide eyes glistening. Even in the dim light, America could see the tear tracks on his younger self's face, mixed with earth where the boy had tried to scrub them away with muddy hands.

"Alfred, go inside. Now!" barked the gun-toting England who had managed to hold back from pulling the trigger at the last moment.

The bewildered child shot America an inquisitive glance then dashed off towards the house as according to his guardian's orders.

Watching his pre-Independence self disappear through the kitchen door, America felt an enormous surge of relief. Young him had been looking for Canada all long.

This feeling was, however, brief.

"_Turn around_."

Hearing the no-nonsense tone so low it was almost a growl, America complied having no other viable option. He made to rise to his feet when he was forced back down from a rough jab to his shoulder with the muzzle.

"Did I tell you to stand up? Stay down."

Awkwardly America managed to turn to face the musket-wielding man without getting up, propping himself up on his elbows. His eyebrows furled. Something was wrong with this picture.

There was only one England.

"I do not know what trick your friend did there but I will not make the same mistake twice."

The remaining England loomed overhead, focusing his primed weapon between his captive's eyes.

Staring up the barrel, a dozen thoughts crossed America's mind, none comprehensible as he saw the finger reach for the trigger.

Sparks flew. America's mind went blank in one final desperate measure to somehow survive on pure instinct.

The world around him seized up in a tornado of light and colour.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

England woke with a start, a thin layer of cold sweat coating every inch of his skin. The erratic heaving of his chest slowed as his body calmed down from the aftermaths of the intense dream.

It was a dream, wasn't it?

Pushing himself to sitting position, the Brit pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to recall his dream through the blooming hangover that was making itself known to him. Bits and pieces came back in short vivid segments that were sadly insufficient in rebuilding the entire story. America was in it at some point; England was somewhat confident about this slightly troubling detail. There was always trouble when his former colony was involved.

He winced at the cracks and creaks produced by his body as he stretched leisurely. Swinging his feet off the bed, he located his bedroom slippers and, without another thought, shuffled off to the adjoined bathroom for a quick shower.

As the water beat down rhythmically on the tense muscles of his back, England contemplated the fragments of his dream. Regaining complete recollection of it felt imperative to him, though the reason behind it eluded him. Whatever it was, a sense of urgency was laced throughout the whole experience.

The brass knob squeaked to a close. He drew the heavy shower curtain aside and seized a bath towel from the aged silver towel bar. The cold water seemed to have eased his headache a little, his thoughts becoming somewhat clearer and less painful.

A white area, a forest at night, America, a young…boy? A familiar young boy at that.

He shook his head and promptly regretted the action. Still, there was something important he was forgetting.

Massaging his forehead with one hand and straightening the stiff collar of his fresh button-down shirt with the other, England glanced towards the patterned glass window. The warm golden glow of the gauzy white linen indicated that he had slept well into the afternoon. He really had to find a better stress relief method that didn't consume so much of his time and intelligence.

Right, the dream. What had happened? Was there an important message?

Threading his belt into his grey trousers, England entertained the idea of retrieving his tome on dream interpretation from the workshop in the cellar. While it wasn't his area of expertise or interest, the Brit did know a thing or two about symbolic dreams. Perhaps the contents had been prophetic in nature; however, foresight was a tricky business that even he as an avid believer and practitioner of mystical arts tended to disregard as a viable magical practice.

Remembering vaguely that he had placed his mobile on the side table before passing out, he returned the bedroom to retrieve it. Sure enough, his cellular phone was there next to his day planner under what appeared to be a cluster of dust bunnies.

Feathers, he discovered upon closer inspection, soft tawny-olive feathers. His eyes caught sight of the small dream catcher hanging from his lamp. The old twine binding the wood into a circular frame had snapped, unravelling enough for the handcraft to become deformed. Like a collapsed spider web, the string webbing hung loose and tangled beyond repair.

Since when had he placed this trinket here—

_Ding-dong_ went the doorbell.

Rushing downstairs, England prayed desperately he hadn't forgotten and slept through some pivotal social event or important meeting. Raking his fingers through his slightly damp hair to make it presentable, he opened the door to reveal an anxious Japan on his doorstep.

"Japan? What are you doing here?" If he remembered correctly, the meeting between their respective government officials was scheduled for tomorrow.

"I apologize for coming here unannounced, Mr. England, but once I saw the news I thought it would be best to contact everyone. Mr. Germany and Italy however haven't been responding to my messages…," the Asian man trailed off in dismay. Something serious must have occurred for Japan to allow his distress to show through his usual imperturbable demeanor.

"News? What news?"

Japan looked up in surprise.

"Have you not seen the news yet, Mr. England?"

"No, not yet, I've been a little preoccupied…, what happened?"

"I believe it would be best if you saw for yourself, it is quite unbelievable," Japan said simply, unfolding a copy of the Times he was carrying tucked under his arm. He held up the newspaper so England could read the headlines.

"What…what is this…?" said England, taking the paper from the other's hands and rereading the front page headlines.

"Many television channel and news websites have an ongoing feed following this story, I've been trying to keep up to date myself," explained Japan with a grim smile. "The situation in America hasn't improved but there has been talk on the internet about mobilization of the army."

This was too ridiculous to be real. England raised his eyes to look at Japan, hoping he'd tell him this was all a joke. Glancing back down at the headlines and still being unable to fully accept it, the Brit turned on his heels and raced to the sitting room.

By the time he turned the old television set on, Japan had joined him on his two-seater. Every channel he flipped to, a frantic newscaster covered the same story; dozens of incredible yet incredulous images flashed across the screen.

One image in particular caught his attention: Rainbow Bridge.

Then suddenly, he remembered.

He remembered about the dream, the drunken night in the attic, the attic ghost—

Slowly he fell back against the two-seater, one hand pressed to his brow. The fading pain in his temple from his little one-man party the previous night came back with alarming intensity as the memories piled up on top of each other. All England could do was shake his head, eyes clenched shut against the onslaught of centuries of missing memories and experiences.

"Dear _lord_," he croaked, "what on earth is happening to us?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Barely any time passed before the world solidified and America was deposited into a crowded city street. Conscious of the suspicious stares he was attracting, he pushed off from ground which had transformed beneath his very fingertips from firm dirt to dusty cobblestone. It was daytime; late afternoon to be more precise, as the sun was already dying the heavens in warm evening hues.

He hurried along without destination to get out of the spotlight and blend into the moving throng of people. As he made his way down the street, America contemplated his next move.

Something had happened to the _real_ England back there. Whatever that was, one thing was clear to the superpower; he was on his own now, and if the European nation didn't show up again, the rest would be up to him.

America tried to recall England's last words prior to his untimely departure.

Memory recreation, a loop…

Before he could even question the possible meaning behind it, America found himself only a few feet away from himself.

Young memory America whose appearance was closer to Independence age stared back with a mixture of stupefaction and recognition, his eyes clear and bright in the absence of his glasses—Texas. The newspaper in the teen's hands slid out of his loose grasp and fluttered to the ground.

This would not end well, the superpower was sure.

Meanwhile, the surroundings began to blur, dissolving into thick coloured mist.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

England watched the same interview for the umpteenth time that day, a heavy crease forming between his knitted eyebrows. All he could hear of Japan was the soft tapping of the keyboard next to him, his eyes never leaving the luminous screen.

"—_honest to god, I was just as shocked as any of you_," rambled an elderly fisherman, reproachful of how eager the microphones were pressed towards him. "_We were heading on home and I thought it would be a good idea to cut through the clouded zone to save on time and fuel when all of a sudden the boat ran aground—_"

He hit the channel button on the remote control.

Click.

"—_emergency meeting at the United States Capitol several hours ago. General opinion in the local press suggests that mobilizing the army remains highly probable with the Navy already—_"

Click.

"—_nation-wide hallucinogen. It's a laughable explanation at best, Karen. The satellite images do not lie, millions of people all around the world who have their eyes on us right now, through the news and the internet, seeing the same evidence we are seeing, can't all be fooled—_"

Click.

"—_police. As you can see behind me, the situation is starting to escalate. Some protesters have already been subdued with pepper spray after repeated warnings to stay away from the barricades. Already understaffed—_"

Click. Click. A relatively tame news channel came on, the sound muted for the benefit of his poor abused ears. The quality on those live on-site video streams was horrendous and everyone seemed to have forgotten what volume control was in the midst of all the chaos.

"Anything new, Japan?" England asked, exhausted physically and mentally. He tried to relax without much success, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the pain between his eyes from staring at the screen for so long.

"Nothing the news hasn't already covered," replied the Asian man, one hand on the laptop's touchpad and the other holding onto a smartphone which he checked frequently. "Still no word from Mr. Germany."

With a deep exhale England turned back to the T.V. set and watched a time-lapse series of satellite images appear on screen of the North-Western Hemisphere. The new addition, a familiar and recognizable shape, reflected in England's troubled green eyes.

A crimson news ticker at the bottom of screen read: _Clouds Clear to Reveal Unknown Landmass in the Arctic Quadrangle Immediately North of the United States._

Underneath a thinner ticker streamed smaller stories, all seeking the identity of the mysterious landmass. Unbeknownst to them, England, drained and sick of all the unnecessary drama, answered that very question in an exasperated sigh heard only by the man himself.

"Canada…"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_A/Ns_: As many reviewers have guessed, yes, the port the sailor ran his ship into last chapter was indeed part of Canada. The details will be discussed in a later chapter.

I hope that the flow of the chapter worked out. There was a lot more action this time around and I find pacing is very important to write it effectively. Any and all advice on ways to improve it is welcome and encouraged. It's still not something I'm comfortable with and since there will be more action in later chapters as well, I hope I can improve on writing action sequences before then.

Also, I noticed ffnet's layout update and the addition of book covers…I'm a little curious to see how that will turn out (I might even find some time to draw up one by the next update but who knows).

Foot notes:

Arctic Quadrangle — The Arctic Quadrangle referred to in this fic is this universe's name for the area Canada should've occupied, drawn from the Bermuda Triangle. From what I know, this term has been used in real life for other things (such as a geological region in Alaska), just note that the use of it here doesn't refer to those.

**Thank you for reading! Feel free to drop me reviews with comments or questions, I enjoy them very much. Until next time!**


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